


Aiken House

by Little_Lat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Servants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you plan to continue your employment as valet I suggest you acquire a shirt that fits…”</p><p>---</p><p>Escaping to Aiken House for the summer months was supposed to make Athos' life simpler, but one member of staff with a too-tight shirt makes it anything but...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A new story! Eeep!
> 
> Enjoy everyone! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Lat ^^

He’d hoped to sleep the last leg of the journey, but as the carriage wheel banged down yet again, Athos knew it would be impossible. The sleek dark wood of the compartment creaked in protest, the wheels far more used to the cobbled streets of London or Edinburgh rather than the northern roads of Scotland. Still, he’d take the rocky northern roads ten times over if it meant he could delay his to return to France for as long as possible. A pity because he longed for his childhood home, to stroll through the familiar grounds and ride out into the neighbouring hills. Still, no matter how much he may miss the estate, the trade-off would have been far too great. Because to get all of that, all the familiarity and the comfort, he would have to deal with his parents attempting to press him into courtship with every available girl north of Nantes.

If his parents only new half of what occurred inside his mind, if they only knew how little women appeared within his thoughts… Well? They would not be so desperate to bring him home.

So when the letter, sealed with his Father’s insignia, had been delivered to his quarters in Oxford, Athos had had to think quickly. He had returned a letter via the same courier, apologising for his absence and explaining that he had already accepted an invitation to summer with a friend from university. Aramis had been surprised by Athos’ acceptance of an invitation which hadn’t technically been offered, but was elated for his friend to join him in his family’s most northern manor. The d'Herblays had owned Aiken House for generations, the estate nestled half a day’s ride north of Aberdeen in the Scottish country side. Athos, who until the very carriage ride, had never been further north than his University, was excited for the adventure. Or had been until the last leg of the journey had left him almost on the floor of the carriage.

Ideally the journey would have been completed with his friend, who’s dry and sometimes vulgar sense of humour would have past the hours far more quickly than gazing out at the passing country, but Aramis had departed Oxford a month earlier. His Theology readings concluded earlier to accommodate the professor’s summer holy pilgrimage which had left Athos no choice but to undergo the journey alone. Long and tedious it might have been but, Athos noted with a swell of relief as he looked out the window, it was over.

The carriage turned into the long drive and Athos craned his neck to get a good look. The grand manor house sent stretched summer shadows across the beautifully manicured gardens, plunging the colourful flower beds into shadow. White pebbles crunched under the wheel as the carriage drew up alongside the grand, grey-granite building which stood tall against the blue sky. Athos braced himself, so was prepared for the slight jerk as the carriage pulled to a complete stop.

Finally.

The footman hopped own from the front and a moment later the carriage door was pulled open, just in time for Athos to hear a shout of excitement.

“Athos, man! I had begun to worry you had headed for Paris instead.”

Athos stepped out onto the gravel, ignoring the ache of his legs after so long curled up in the journey, and broke into a smile as he watched his friend take the grey steps two at a time. Aramis was two years his junior, around twenty one, with dark wavy hair, eyes glinting with mischief and a sharp goatee. He had obviously left whatever he’d been doing in a hurry, as his jacket was missing, dressed only in pressed trousers, white starched shirt and navy waistcoat. His ascot tie was missing from his neck and top two shirt buttons were undone, an act which would have never been allowed at Oxford, but Athos barely noticed as Aramis flew down the final steps and grabbed his hand in an enthusiastic shake.

“Never, not after such a kind offer of hospitality here,” Athos smiled tiredly, “The estate is beautiful.”

“Just wait until you see it in the midday sun – I’ve spent every summer here since I can remember however the south lake still gives me chills every time I see it.” Aramis clapped his friend on the shoulder and motioned for the two staff members who hovered in the background, awaiting instruction. The first was easily in his forties, stiff backed and natural in the service with dark hair well on the way to silver. The second man, however, took Athos’ interest. The man was stiff and awkward, as if unsure of how exactly to hold his big hands and shoulders while serving. His dark skin shone with a sheen of sweat, his shirt and trousers inches too tight for the huge frame. The thin white fabric clung to well defined arms, showing off distinct muscles which spoke of outdoor graft rather than serving. Still… The tight fabric was a nice sight. Athos wondered whether the man’s skin was as dark underneath the fabric.

_Stop!_

Athos blinked away the thought as Aramis began giving orders.

“Crosswire, du Vallon, please take my friend’s bags to the guest room which was prepared.”

Aramis steered his friend away as the two servants began to unload the carriage.

“It’s a little late to show you the estate and I suppose you’re more than ready to retire, but can I offer you a night cap?”

The idea of bed was more than a little enticing, however Athos was determined not to be rude. Not to Aramis of course, they were more than passed that point of their friendship, but he was not the only man in the manor.

“I could be persuaded into a nightcap. Will your father be joining us?”

“Oh Father is in Inverness until next week,” Aramis shook his head, “Business never rests and all that. Mother accompanied him, so for now it’s just us – oh and uncle Rochefort.”

“Oh?” Athos asked as they entered the grand manor into the entrance hall, “You’ve never mentioned an uncle.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow, “Mother’s younger brother, Mark Rochefort. There was some, uh, unpleasantness a few years back in Glasgow, so father made in Estate Manager here while we’re away. Uncle gets a little, well, uncomfortable when we visit. The king of the castle being de-throned and all that.”

Aramis looked back over his shoulder and offered a shrug as he opened an expensive dark magonany hair open. “He’s basically harmless though…”

A tired chuckle escaped Athos as he was led into the library. The fire was warm and welcoming, but what stole Athos’ attention was the grand bookcases which completely filled two walls of the room. He longed to run a finger across the titles and discover what hidden gems might be sat on the shelves, but he supposed there would be time for that later.  Aramis turned to the side board and poured two healthy servings of whisky.  He offered one of the crystal cut glasses to his friend and held up his own in a toast.

“To a summer to remember?”

Athos tipped his own glass, clinking it against his friend’s.

“To a summer to remember.”

* * *

 

One glass of whiskey turned into a second, and then a third. Soon half the decanter was gone and the men were lounging in front of the fire, Athos doubled over with quite ungentlemanly cackles as Aramis regaled him with yet another outrageous story. Even if half of it was true, Aramis must have been quite the unruly child.

“And you were _naked_?” Athos spluttered around a scandalised cough.

Aramis wiggled his eyebrows suggestion, “As the day I was born! Those ducks had never seen anything like it – or the poor grounds keeper! I’m sure at least I’m partly responsible for pushing him into early retirement...”

“You’re a menace! How did they even let you _in_ to read theology?”

A look of mock surprise slid across Aramis’ face as he spread his hands wide, “Athos, my friend, your guess is as good as mine. If I didn’t think my father would have a heart attack I might have read the classics instead – become a thespian. Then my antics could be called an eccentricity instead.”

“You, my friend,” Athos pointed a, slightly, wobbly finger at his friend, “Need no more excuses for to validate your defiant behaviour. What would Professor Graham say?”

“Ahh…” Aramis sighed, thinking back to his professor in Oxford, a man easily in his sixties who rarely went a day with at least damning student to hell for their sinful lifestyle or lustful heart, “Well if I am to be cast into eternal fire by the great God Graham then I suppose I should do so in style.”

Athos had chosen the wrong moment to take a sip of his whiskey, before it almost left his mouth in a spray of surprise.

“That’s blasphemy man!”

“Well I won’t tell if you won’t. Desecration can be such fun after all.”

Athos shook his head, even if the memory of the dark skinned man in the tight servers uniform danced through his whiskey addled mind.

Desecration indeed…

Athos wiped his brow on a shirt sleeve, rolling the empty crystal over the leather arm rest with his other hand.

“Not that hearing a theology student blasphemy isn’t rather entertaining, but I fear if I do not retire now I may find my sleep in this chair.”

Aramis nodded in understanding, “of course.”

 He set down his own empty glass and leaned across to the wall. He gave the servant’s bell a few quick tugs. A moment later a side door opened. Athos, before he could help himself, found himself hoping for those strong arms in his tight white uniform, and couldn’t help but be disappointed as the middle aged butler appeared.

“Ah Crosswire, thank you. Please show Athos to his room and fetch him anything he requires.”

The butler inclined his head in a subtle nod, an understanding of his instructions. “ Of course, Sir. And may I enquire whether I should prepare your room prepared also?”

Surprisingly Aramis shook his head, “I will see to myself tonight, thank you. I’m not quite ready to withdraw, perhaps a wander in my grounds will do me good. Once Athos is settled consider the night yours.”

Crosswire nodded again and Aramis turned to the younger man, giving his shoulder a squeeze, “It’s good to have you here, my friend. Please make yourself at home, what mine is yours. Sleep well.”

Athos smiled and nodded in thanks, watching his friend slip from the room. Once Aramis was gone he turned back to the servant. A pity, he’d been so hopeful for that too tight shirt and…

_Get a hold of yourself!_

“So,” Athos swallowed, whiskey still causing his mind to swim a little, “Where am I to sleep?”

* * *

 

But he couldn’t sleep. Crosswire had shown Athos to a beautiful, spacious room, with big bay windows which over looked the gardens. The large four poster bed had been more than inviting, but as he’d laid down the world had begun to shudder and spin. It was as if he was still in the carriage being jostled and rolled, likely made all the worse by the whiskey churning in the system. Athos hardly had a weak stomach, but the combination of the two was leaving his belly unsettled.

Good _God!_ Unsettled suddenly seemed like an understatement, and being horizontal was making it all the worse.  Athos sat up with a huff of annoyance, rubbing a hand through his unruly dark hair. It had got even longer since he left Oxford – he swore it grew at the double speed recently – perhaps he should have gotten it cut to look half way presentable when meeting the d'Herblay family. Well, couldn’t be helped now. What _could_ be helped however was finding a distraction to ensure he didn’t up end the contents of his stomach into the lavatory.

What he needed was a distraction. Something to keep himself upright and his mind off his churning stomach. Memories of the filled, colourful bookcases danced temptingly close. The manor was quiet, with silenced in sleep, but Aramis _had_ said that he was to treat the place like his home. Even so, Athos drew the line at wandering the halls in a night shirt, so quickly shrugged on his trousers, shirt and braces before venturing out. At least he’d had the sense to grab the candle by his bedside to give himself some light.

It wasn’t far to the library, a few twists and turns and he was there, only he was surprised to find a light flickering out from under the door. It wasn’t strong, few licks of low orange was likely the product of a single candle, but Athos was surprised that anyone was still awake. Perhaps Aramis had returned from his walk still restless, or maybe the illusive uncle Rochefort was a night owl. Either way he wouldn’t linger, just find a book and return to his quarters to pass enough time until he could sleep without fear of his own body.

He shoved the door with his shoulder, the creak of old hinges cutting through the dead air and shattering it.

But it wasn’t Aramis he was met with, or the mystery uncle. Athos frowned as his eyes found the figure at the bookcase, broad shoulders tensed in a manner which made the tight white shirt even _tighter._ However there wasn’t time to mull over the muscles hidden beneath the fabric, because one broad dark hand was raised, frozen in its action of pulling down a dark leather covered book.

“You’re –“ Athos stepped into the room, words tumbling over each other in his mind, all attempting to escape his mouth at once, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The figure stayed frozen, facing the shelves as he realised he’d been caught.

“I-“ du Vallon began to explain himself, but Athos didn’t give him a chance.

“You’re _stealing_!” Athos stepped into the room and thrust the candle stick onto the nearby desk. He stormed forward, “They give you a home and a job and a wage and, what – that isn’t _good_ enough for you?” His voice snapped across the dark room, glaring through the gloom to the thief. The silence which stretched across the room only infuriated more.

“Have you _nothing_ to say?” He demanded, “Shall I just go alert your employer then?”

That finally got a reaction.

“No!”

The figure turned back to face the room, the low candlelight sending shadows across the already dark skin. Athos was caught out for a second, meeting eyes that were wide in terror, not anger like he had expected.

The man took a shaky breath, hands raised in surrender, book still clutched in one hand.

“No.” The man repeated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, “Sir, please.  I’m not stealing – I wouldn’t steal from Mr Aramis, he was the one who insisted I be trialled in a position house. I’d never steal from him.”

The idea of the valet using Aramis’ first name was surprising, but then, Athos reasoned, there would be multiple d'Herblays at least in the house during any summer. Still, the reasons didn’t matter.

“Well you’re hardly cleaning at –“ Athos broke off an eyed the grandfather clock, “One in the morning. You’re sneaking around like a thief in the night – you’re even holding their property! Give me one good reason I shouldn’t be waking him right now?”

Something twitched in the man’s dark eyes, not quite irritation more… Embarrassment?

“I don’t steal. I always put the books back, never damage them. I just…” The man swallowed again, like the truth was stuck in his throat, unwilling to be released into the night air.

However Athos was not in a forgiving mood. He arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow arched in irritation.

“Just?”

There was a heartbeat more silence, more quiet stretched. Athos wondered if the man was just going to suffer in silence, until it all came tumbling out. A confession.

“I borrow them. For practice….”

Athos blinked.

He hadn’t been expecting that.

“To practice your reading?”

The big man brought a hand up and scrubbed the back of his neck, “Never needed to read when I worked in the grounds, but no one wants an illiterate valet. If I hope to stay I’ll need to…”

It shouldn’t make a difference. Athos knew that. What the man had done was a stackable offence without a chance of references and he would rightly deserve it.

And yet…

Athos reached a hand out towards the book which had caused the problem in the first place, “Give it here…”

With only a reasonable degree of suspicion the man passed it over without complaint. Athos turned it over in his hands, the title “Picture of Dorian Grey,” picked out in gold lettering on the black background.

“What’s your name?”

“Du Vallon, sir.”

Athos arched up as he glanced up.

“Your first name.”

“Oh,” Du Vallon swallowed, “Porthos, sir.”

“Athos de La Fere,” Athos introduced himself without looking up again. He flipped the page opened at random page and scanned it, “You can read this?”

Porthos hesitated then shook his head.

“I’ve tried but… I’m beginning to think I’m just not cut out for this kind of thing.”

“Nonsense,” The book snapped shut and Athos leant forward, slipping the book back onto the shelf, “Reading is like any skill. Start small and build with practice. A rider cannot gallop their first time on a horse, why should this be any different? There is little point tackling novels if you as yet do not have the foundations.”

Porthos frowned, eyes flickering to the smaller man with a glint of hope, “Does that mean you will not tell Mr Aramis?”

Did it? Athos knew he should. He knew his father would expect him too. There would be no excuse for thievery in his eyes.

But Athos was not his Father, in many ways. In his unwillingness to enlist into the army, his love of the academics, his love of _other_ deviances… No, definitely not his father. He nodded. “On the understanding you do not take any more books, I suppose so yes.”

A breath rushed out of the valet, his shoulders relaxing as he slumped back in relief, “Thank you, Sir.”

“I have something which you may find easier to read,” Athos mused, a hand rubbing across his bearded chin, “Finished it on the journey here… Not tonight, but if you wish it I shall bring it tomorrow for you.”

Porthos blinked in surprised, the offer both a surprise and welcome.

“I… Sir I couldn’t ask you too –“

“You wish to read,” Athos turned and picked up his candle, preparing to retire, “My offer stands. If you wish some support I will meet you here tomorrow night.”

He turned toward the door, this time determined to go to bed properly. Athos paused for a moment by the door, glancing back at again to the man who stood, dumfounded, by the desk.

“Although, can I offer you some advice?”

Had Athos been sober he’d have nodded to the man and bidden him goodnight, but the whiskey was still warming his chest and forcing him to dance on the edge of caution. So Athos just held the big man’s gaze, a smirk on his face.

“If you plan on remaining in your employment as valet I suggest you acquire a shirt that fits…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much to everyone who read and left Kudos of the last chapter, and to Charlie and CanadianGarrison for your wonderful feedback! You have no idea how much your kind words and kudos mean <3
> 
> I've been having trouble getting this chapter up - I think AO3 is rejecting this story! I'm trying not to take it personally xD
> 
> Anyways, on with the next chapter! Any and all feedback will be met with hugs! <3

The next day Athos was reminded of just how much he loved life on an estate. Country air, wandering under a canopy of leaves, pushing a horse into a gallop when there was nothing but wide open fields ahead. It sung to Athos’ soul in a way city stone never did. Perhaps it was the isolation too, the idea that there weren’t hundreds eyes watching his every move, judging his actions after he rebuffed suiter after suiter or noticing  when his eyes lingered too long on the wrong gender.

Damnation really wasn’t so far away.

Athos wondered, not for the first time as he urged his horse on across the field, what Aramis would say if he ever found out. The man studied the law of God for Christ’s sake – Aramis might enjoy to paint himself the heathen but surely he had his limits.

And being friends with a dirty sodomite would certainly cross it.

Not that Athos technically _was_ a sodomite. Or was he..? Did fantasies count? Because if they _did_ then Athos was definitely going to hell, if for no other reason than last night’s wandering thoughts about a certain tight-shirted valet….

Lord, he truly was a deviant.

He reigned his horse in, only because he didn’t fancy taking the approaching stone wall on an unfamiliar animal, and brought his mount to a standstill. He bent, clapping the sleek stallion gratefully on his neck. Within thirty seconds Aramis arrived, laughing at his side.

“When you said you could ride, I always assumed you were lying!”

Athos snorted, moving to scratch a hand through the horse’s mane.

“Why would I lie?”

“Occupational hazard?” Aramis flashed a winning smile, “When a lawyers lips are moving and all that…”

“I’m no lawyer yet!” Athos laughed, “Let’s just see how many lawyer jokes you’ll be telling when your antics land in front of the magistrate.”

“Oh ye of little faith…” The look Aramis offered sung of mischief, “To need a lawyer I would first need to be caught. Now, I need a chance to redeem my honour, race you back?”

Before Athos could agree Aramis spurred his mare and he was off. With a shout of indignant laughter Athos took after him, the wind whipping up his hair into a storm of dark waves around him.

The ride was short, and although Athos made up some ground Aramis reached the stables few minutes before him. The mounting yard, a square of straw covered cobble stones, surrounded on three sides with dark wooden stable blocks, was empty so Athos swung himself down easily and began to lead his horse towards a tying loop. Quick, urgent voices, wafted out through a crack in the stable door as Athos threaded the thick leather rein through the metal hook.

“I shouldn’t have even come last night!”

“Well if we’re talking about what we _shouldn’t_ be doing…”

Athos frowned, his hands pausing as he listened. He recognised the lilt of Aramis’ voice even through the wooden partition. The other voice, however, was unfamiliar. Undoubtedly male, but unfamiliar.

“That’s not what I meant… You know I miss you but I’ll be missed from the house if I keep disappearing.”

“Oh yes, your _friend_ from University demands your attention. I suppose now you have a better offer I won’t be seeing you at all.”

“Don’t say that. Athos has nothing to do with us.”

“No? De la Fère is handsome, and rich, and –“

“-Not you. Athos is my friend, nothing more. I’ve never wanted him like that, and definitely never done this with him…”

There was no mistaking the muffled sounds which followed and Athos jumped back as if scalded. His horse snorted ungratefully at the sudden motion, but Athos barely noticed. He was too focused on the stable door and what he was _certain_ was going on behind it.

But… But Aramis… He was…

Athos should knock, or make the horse whinny, or announce himself in some other way, but when a muffled moan floated from the empty stable he found himself turning. Horse abandoned Athos took off at a half run to the house, heart in his throat.

Aramis… Aramis with a man… Aramis with man in a _stable block._ Somewhere in the back of his mind a part of Athos felt like laughing; his friend was nothing if not a walking cliché. But that part of his reaction was mostly drowned out by horror.

Did Aramis _know_ what he was doing? Damnation aside (although as a theology student it shouldn’t be), what Aramis was doing would land in in the nearest jailhouse if he was caught. Their earlier conversation wafted back to Athos as he approached the door of the manor.

_“To need a lawyer I would first need to be caught…”_

The words suddenly took on a whole new meaning. How could Aramis be so blazon?

Athos entered the reception hall, and turned towards the staircase which led towards the sleeping quarters, when I snide voice cut across his inner monologue.

“Do you make a habit of crashing around a home you are a guest in?”

Athos’ foot paused on the bottom step of the staircase and turned. A man, short and middle aged, stood in a nearby doorway. His dirty blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail and pulled to the nape of his neck, cold blue eyes glaring at Athos as if he’d caused personal offense.

It took an effort, but Athos swallowed and forced himself into a composed state. For now at least, he wasn’t going to think about Aramis in the _stable_ with –

“Forgive me, Sir. I have often been accused of a one track mind. My name is Athos de la Fère, and you are Aramis’ uncle?” Athos stepped forward and offered the older man his hand, “Aramis has told me a lot about you.”

Athos blinked in surprise when this Rochefort didn’t move. The man looked down at the outstretched hand like it was dirty.

“Just walk. Don’t run.” And with that the man turned on his heels and Athos was alone. His face grew hot. To receive the same dressing down as you would give an unruly ten year old was mortifying.

Mood compounded to become even more thunderous, Athos turned back to the staircase, with the express plan to lock himself in him room and proclaim a migraine until he could set his head on straight. Actually, he didn’t even think he needed to fake the pain which was already beginning to congregate and conceal behind his eyes. All he wanted to do was be alone and straighten his mind out, but clearly that wasn’t mean to be.

Athos turned into the corridor containing his room and stopped short. A man in too-tight shirt clicked a guest door shut behind him, riding boots for cleaning tucked under his arm. Porthos du Vallon looked up at the footsteps and his face broke into a guienune smile.

“Mr de la Fère, good evening.”

It was the last straw. The final crack which caused Athos to shatter. Aramis with the stable boy and being dressed down my Rochefort and now the bloody Valet in that too _tight_ shirt which made Athos want to map those muscles with his tongue and –

He snapped.

“Oh will you just find a shirt that fits!” Athos hurled the insult at him as attempted to shove past him, “It's indecent.”

The look of surprise which became hurt on Porthos’ face made Athos feel even worse. The smile wavered and disappeared. Instead the man’s featured morphed into a mask of the impassive servant, the look which every other staff member worse in this place.  

Porthos stepped back against the wall and inclined his head, “Forgive me, Sir. I forget myself.”

And now he’d ruined that friendship too. Great…

Without looking back Athos wrenched open his door and hurled himself inside. He slammed the door shut on the world and allowed his hair to take up residence in his hair. A sigh of defeat blew from Athos’ mouth as his head fell back.

Maybe he could just stay in there forever.

* * *

 

It took Athos less than twenty minutes to start feeling guilty. Porthos wasn’t to blame for the Aramis revelation, nor was he responsible for Rochefort’s rudeness. He’d only meant to offer a greeting and in return he had been met with a tirade of abuse.

Good God… Athos knew he could have a temper but that was just downright rude. No excuse.  His father might not have done much different but his mother had taught him better than that. The staff were there to earn a wage and do a job. That did not give anyone the right to take frustration or anger out on them.

He had to make this right. Whether he wanted to or not.

Athos swallowed, gathering what was left of his bruised ego and rang the servant’s bell. He couldn’t work out whether to feel relieved or deflated when the middle aged Crosswire answered, not Porthos.

“Can I be of service, sir?”

“Yes, yes thank you,” Athos scrambled for an excuse. He couldn’t down right ask for Porthos, so took another tact instead, “Could you relay my apologies to Aramis, however I am feeling under the weather. And could I have some tea sent up?”

“Of course, Sir,” Crosswire nodded as he stepped back, and once again Athos as alone. He flopped back onto his bed with a sigh and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, willing the ache to leave his head.

Would Aramis even buy his excuse? He normally could see through Athos so easily. He wasn’t avoiding him per say, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be mentioning what he heard any time soon, but he just needed some time to digest the information before he and his friend met again.

By tomorrow there would be nothing to discuss. They would be back to normal tomorrow. Athos just needed the night.

“Your tea, Sir?”

Athos stiffened, even with his eyes closed he knew that voice.

That voice.

He rolled, forcing himself to sit up and meet the clouded, distrustful eyes of Porthos du Vallon, who held the tray containing a white tea cup, teapot and milk jug. His gaze dropped to the tray, away from Athos’ eyes.

“Where do you wish it?”

“Porthos I –“

“I realise I haven’t yet changed,” Porthos spoke over the other man, a touch of defiance in his voice, “I intend to purchase a new uniform with my first pay check but until then I have little other options to-“

“Porthos please.”

Athos stood and carefully removed the tray from the man’s grasp. He placed it to the side before turning back to the man who was already retreating to the door.

“I’m sorry.”

The words at least made Porthos pause.

“Pardon, sir?”

Athos swallowed, well he’d started so he should finish…“I should never have spoken you so harshly. You didn’t deserve that. I’d had… Well some sort of revelation and I took it out on you. Please. I’m sorry.”

The twist of Porthos’ features spoke off indecision and Athos couldn’t blame him. What had he done to show Porthos he could be trusted? All he’d done was have a different personality every time they’d met. Well, that and have unholy thoughts about those arms which, caused a slight blush to spread up his neck.

“Never been offered an apology from any of your lot –“ He broke off, glancing up nervously in case he’d caused offence. When Athos’ face stayed impartially hopeful he continued, “Before...”

“I’ve met many of ‘ _my lot’_ who have forgotten the word exists,” Athos, now mostly reassured that the man wasn’t about to make a run for it, leaned back against the bed post, “And although I confess I am often one of them, I try my hardest not to be.”

Porthos swallowed, a little uncomfortable so instead shifted the focus of the conversation away the awkwardness.

“Are you alright? Your revelation I mean? Mr Crosswire said you felt unwell.”

Aramis… Aramis and his mutters through the wall, _moans_ from inside the stable… Athos still felt his head spinning every time he thought about it.

“I’ll be fine,” Athos said, not because he was sure it was true but because he’d decided it had to be. Although he tried his best sound convincing it was clear from Porthos’ look of concern it wasn’t working.

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Athos smiled, surprisingly touched by the offer. To offer such a kindness despite how Athos had previously acted surprised him. Not everyone would have such a kind soul.

“A distraction would be nice,” The words slipped out before Athos could stop them, the little traitors slipping past his lips. Porthos blinked in surprise, his mouth opening to offer God know’s what kind of response. Heat rose again up his neck as Athos jumped in first, desperate to salvage the situation and _not_ dwell on the sort of distraction Porthos could offer him with those strong arms.

“You’re reading! I imagine you could need some help?”

“I…” Porthos swallowed around whatever polite decline must have been on his lips, “If you are willing then I – yes. That would be rather kind, Sir.”

“Think of it as recoupments for my earlier behaviour.”

A shadow of a smirk slid across Porthos’ face, just a hint of how the man acted out of the uniform.

_Out of the uniform…_ Great choice of words. Athos cursed himself for that mental image which he definitely shouldn’t have summoned but enjoyed all the same.

“Well if all I need to do to get a tutor is deal with a little bit of rudeness I’d have insulted you when we first met.”

The laugh that spilled from Athos mouth, carefree and hearty, surprised even him. It made him feel lighter somehow, warmer.

“Well that’s always an option I suppose… I assume you have to work now, but after?”

Porthos sent a glance to the clock, mentally counting offer the hours.

“Assuming Mr Rochefort or Mr Aramis don’t need anything I am dismissed at eleven. If that is too late for you I-“

“No, no, that’s fine,” Athos nodded, turning to pick up his tea. He didn’t really want it, especially now it was lukewarm at best, but he has asked for it, “Well, I suppose I’ll see you then.”

“Yea,” Another one of those little smirks slid onto Porthos’ face as he turned to the door, back to real life, “I suppose you will…”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the kind words and kudos! <3 I'm glad people are enjoying this fic!
> 
> Here's the next chapter - enjoy!

Eleven came and went with silence. No knock at the door, nothing. By ten past Athos just assumed that Porthos was delayed serving, but by half past he realised he must have changed his mind. Not really that surprising, after the game of mind tennis he’d been playing with the poor man. Kindness, only to be followed rudeness, then an offer which could easily be seen as lurid – which it always _was_ , if only secretly. If Porthos could see the thoughts that had played inside Athos’ brain, if he could see the depravity which slid beneath the surface…

Well maybe it was for the best that Porthos had changed his mind.

Still, by twenty minutes to midnight Athos poured himself a generous whiskey from a flask in his bag. How could this feel like rejection when technically Porthos hadn’t promised him anything? How could it hurt when he hadn’t really lost anything?

His flask of whiskey was never going to be enough to smooth over the cracks in his ego, however there was _no_ way in hell he’d be ringing for anyone to bring some up. He just savoured the taste, letting his mind wander as the minutes ticked by.

Athos almost missed the knock on the door just before midnight. His eyes were closed in a semi-sleep, head fallen back against the cold wood of his chair back. He didn’t stir until the hesitant knock came again. He frowned at the closed door, blinking memories back to life.

Surely not… It had to be Aramis, maybe he was checking on him because Porthos wasn’t coming, there was no way.

“Come in…”

He waited, but when no one arrived through the door Athos rose from his chair. He swayed a little, his chest stirring with the buzz of the whisky.

Athos could help but just blink in surprise when he opened the door to find Porthos standing sheepishly on the other side. One large hand was still raised to knock, a nervous, hesitant smile on his face.

“Thought you said eleven…” Athos realised how whingy he sounded, although did step back to allow Porthos to enter.

“I did, Sir, and I should have finished but I don’t get to leave ‘til I’m dismissed. Then I had to clean up.”

As Porthos stepped passed Athos through the door he caught a scent of wood smoke and coal from the man. There was a small smudge of black coal dust on his dark neck. Who on earth needed coal at this time of night in the height of summer – even the Scottish summer?

"You’ve got,” Athos reached forward before he could stop himself and brushed a fingertip against the dirty powdered smudge. Porthos’ skin was warmer than he’d expected, and smooth under the pad of his finger, “Something.”

Porthos jerked at the touch, not in discomfort, more of surprise. He reached up to touch the mark on his neck, Athos’ hand retreated to allow him to do so.

“Thought I’d got it all… Sorry.”

“Who was wanting a fire at this time?”

“Mr Rochefort, although I think he just likes watching me drag coal up to his quarters.”

The mental image of Porthos straining in that tight shirt which sprung into Athos’ mind assured him that it _would_ be quite a sight to watch. He blinked it away quickly, turning to pour the reminder of his hip flask into two tumblers.

“Rochefort’s the estate manager isn’t he? What is he, just a sadist?”

Porthos looked at the glass as it was held out, a little distrustfully.

“Nothing you say leaves this room, Porthos. I’m not about to go running to your employer because you speak your mind.”

After a second of contemplation Porthos nodded and accepted the glass.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Don’t start with that,” Athos waved it away. He flopped down into the seat by the writing desk and gestured to the other, “I have no wish nor need for you to stand on ceremony while I drink. Join me. My name is Athos, use it.”

Never a man to refuse an offer, Porthos took a seat at Athos’ side. He stretched his legs out, a variety of joints popping as he did so. “It seems you are full of surprises, Athos.”

Surprises… Deviances… Same difference really.

Athos avoided the question and instead tossed his handkerchief towards Porthos to clean up.

“So why did Rochefort have you hauling coal? There’s no need for fires with weather this fair.”

“He didn’t even use the bloody coal. Just likes me to bring it up. Gives him plenty of ammunition for his jokes.”

“Jokes?” Athos asked, stubbornly ignoring Porthos as he rubbed _his_ handkerchief over his neck to clean up.

Porthos snorted humorously, narrowing his eyes at the glass in his hand.

“With hands like mine how will I ever know they’re clean of coal?”

He took a good gulp of the whisky as Athos’ eyes widened in alarm.

“He said that?”

Porthos shrugged.

“No one else cares. Rochefort largely left me alone when I worked out with the house, but after Mr Aramis convinced his father to give me a try in the house I think the man took it like a personal insult…”

“But why –“

“Rochefort sees this place as his even if it belongs to Mr d'Herblay. His Kingdom, his domain. I’m just a dark little stain on his otherwise spotless household.”

The vile words which Porthos spat sent a shiver down Athos’ spine. Rochefort had seemed difficult in their quick meeting, but what Porthos was disclosing was a whole new level.

“That’s disgusting.”

Porthos just shrugged, “I’m a… what was it..?” He paused, taking a long sip of the alcohol as he cast his mind back over the memories, “A ‘ _half breed mutt…’_ If he finds out I don’t read then he’ll finally have an excuse to bounce me out of here – whether Mr Aramis stands up for me or not.”

Suddenly, Athos could see the importance of Porthos’ literacy. It wasn’t just a flight of fantasy, just a whim, it was necessary in order for him to keep hold of the way of his life. Porthos was not a man who’d had anything handed to him. Athos knew he’d taken his own high end education for granted. A Governess, then boarding school and now Oxford with all fees paid without complaint by his parents. Porthos would have likely killed for that opportunity.

“Well I can’t fix Rochefort, or his twisted ideals,” Athos set his tumbler down and reached for a book on the desk, “But we can fix the reading. Ready?”

So that was how the next hour went. With the help of whisky Athos assessed Porthos’ abilities, which were far more basic than he’d imagined after finding him with an Oscar Wilde novel. Porthos had clearly been trying his best with what he had, but books without the basics were useless. They’d abandoned the book rather quickly in favour of Athos’ carefully written cursive.  They started with the alphabet and quickly moved onto simple three letter words. Porthos, Athos was surprised to learn, was a quick study. He drank in the information, swallowing it as if doing so committed it to memory forever. His finger stretched out, creating his own words, invisible under Athos’ dark ink.

“A black cat is on the mat,” Porthos mumbled the latest sentence Athos inked into existence, “I pet the black cat on the mat.”

He glanced up, eyes bright with mischief and alcohol, “If this cat bites me I’ll make it into a scarf.”

Athos snorted but shook his head as he continued to ink a sentence below the last.

“Porthos,” Porthos read allowed as Athos’ writing appeared, “Will kill the cat if it bit-“

He looked up frowning, “What’s that word?”

“Bite,” Athos explained. He underlined the letters B and T and then pressed a dot under the I and E, “The B and the T keep their normal sound, but if there is an E at the end of a word it makes other vowel say its name, not its sound. So…” Athos carefully wrote two words, one under the other, “Bit becomes bite… See?”

Porthos frowned, mulling over the new rule carefully as not to misunderstand.

“Like… Lit and Light?” He asked.

But Athos shook his head.

“Those are like this…” Carefully Athos scrawled those two words on the paper. Porthos’ eyes glanced down at the words, his gaze promptly narrowing.

“Why the bloody hell do those words do that? What happened to the ‘e’ rule?”

“That’s English my friend,” Athos petted his forearm gently, “Just when you think you’ve cracked it they change the rules on you. It’s nothing personal…”

“It’s bloody rude,” Porthos glared, downing the last of his whiskey, “That’s what it is…”

Athos, despite himself, found himself chuckling. He shook his head, looking over all those carefully scribed letters and words. He’d never thought of it quite like that, hell he couldn’t even remember learning to read, French or Enlgish.

“Well you’re not wrong…”

The pair lapsed into a silence of sorts, not uncomfortable just… Pensive.

Eventually Athos drained his own tumbler, “I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

Porthos opened his mouth as if to deny it, but Athos held up a hand, “You’ve been up since, what, seven?”

“Six,” Porthos admitted.

“Six then,” Athos amended, “We’ve covered a lot, but there’s only so much you can do with little sleep. You’ve done well, Porthos.”

“Yea,” the bigger man shrugged, “Learning something that I should have done when I was knee high. Bit late, eh?”

“Doesn’t matter when you’re learning it,” Athos reasoned, stretching his arms above his head until his elbows cracked, “Just that you’re trying. Plenty of people wouldn’t bother.”

“There’s also plenty of people who wouldn’t help,” Porthos tilted his head ever so slightly, fixing Athos with a speculative gaze. Athos suddenly felt heat rise up from under his collar. Porthos’ eyes were dark and large and so intense it suddenly seemed like he was naked. Being weighed and measured and assessed. “Wouldn’t care…”

Heat continued to rise, up to Athos’ cheeks and gave them a pink quality.

“You’re one of a kind, you are…”

“One of a kind indeed…” Athos’ flush continued to rise in his cheeks, all those deviant thoughts suddenly rearing their heads at once.

Porthos in his tight shirt…

Porthos’ surprisingly soft skin under Athos’ touch.

Porthos’ hands, so big yet so gentle, tracing the same letters he’d drawn on the paper across Athos’ bare skin….

“Do you not see it?” Porthos asked, eyes refusing to deviant from their target of Athos’ face, no matter how uncomfortable it made the younger man.

“There’s nothing to see…” Athos mumbled. They were too close… Too close with too much Dutch courage in their system. Athos could _feel_ the heat roll off the big man’s body. He should move away. He should make his excuses and retire, but...

Those eyes stayed on him, warm and intense. Their attention made him want to shudder in the best way possible.

“You obviously aren’t looking in the right places…”

He was close… So close… His warm breath teased Athos’ cheeks, tickled across the skin making his heart hammer against his chest in excitement.

It was the touch of Porthos’ hand to Athos’ bare arm that broke the spell. It was like a sudden burn, in the best possible way, which made Athos withdraw his hand and drop his gaze.

Still, he didn’t miss the flash of disappointment shoot across Porthos’ gaze.

“Athos…”

The younger man just shook his head, “We shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” Porthos frowned, “You’ve treated me like a human being, invited me to drink with you in our private quarters… Did I read this wrong?”

“I…” Suddenly every word within the English language flew from his mind. Every excuse, every lie he could tell about being uninterested, gone from his brain. When Athos didn’t reply Porthos slid his hand back onto the man’s arm.

“Am I reading this wrong? Do you…?” The second half of the loaded question was lost between them.

God Athos had never admitted it to anyone before, barely even himself in the night under a veil of darkness which promised to keep all secrets.

“Are you asking if I am a deviant, Porthos? If I willingly and freely defy the laws of the Almighty and nature itself?”

“What I’m asking,” Porthos’ hand tightened on Athos’ arm when he didn’t pull away, “Is whether you love in an unconventional way.”

“I’ve,” Athos’ eyes fluttered closed, the truth bubbling up from his throat too fast to stop it, “I’ve never…”

The hand slid across Athos’ arm and down to his hand, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. He could feel _everything_ and it made his heart race, hammering as if it wanted to break through the bone. God it felt so, good… How was it allowed to feel so _good_?

“Never?” Porthos didn’t say it as an accusation, as a curiosity, “But do you want too?”

Did he..? Did he want too?

A breath shuddered out of Athos as his eyes fluttered open, immediately finding Porthos’ with enough intensity to hit him like a punch in the stomach.

Very slowly Athos nodded his head. Porthos broke into an easy smile, the action lighting up his whole face. It was impossible not to reciprocate.

“Nothing you don’t like,” Porthos’ body inched its way forward, “I promise…”

The kiss was slow and gentle, Porthos’ strong arms finding Athos and tugging him in close. Athos moulded his lips against Porthos’ savouring the taste of whisky and sweat and – Athos opened his mouth and Porthos groaned against him, gratefully tasting him in return. Athos’ hands found the front of the bloody shirt, running his hands over the barely concealed muscles. His fingers danced over the plains of the arms, noting every curve, every hitch.

“Your bloody shirt…” Athos murmured as the broke apart, Porthos’ hands taking up root in his hair to keep him close, “Has been driving me to distraction ever since I arrived.”

Porthos chucked, his forehead leaning forward to press again Athos’ own.

“Oh? And what have you been thinking about..?”

Blush rose in Athos’ cheeks, “I believe you are the expert in these matters. I hardly know where to begin…”

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered, do you know that?” Porthos pressed a kiss to the corner of Athos’ mouth, a second a moment later to his lips, “You and that posh little accent and your innocent charms. I could ruin you…”

A shudder ran through Athos as Porthos tugged him up until they were both standing.

“Would you like that? For me to show you exactly how good depravity can feel?”

He should say no… No, no no….

“Yes,” The word came out in two broken syllables, a confession.

Porthos stepped forward, pressing Athos back until his he hit the wall. Porthos pressed a leg between Athos’ own, and rubbed it against Athos’ crotch in the most obscene way, making the younger man almost buckle.

“Please…”

“Begging already?” Porthos’ hot breath tickled down his neck and a moment later he’d latched on, sucking a mark against Athos’ collarbone, “Just you wait…”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with chapter 4! 
> 
> Just to let you guys know, I'm off on holiday to the States tomorrow, so updates will be paused until I'm back at home. 
> 
> Hope everyone has a wonderful two weeks! 
> 
> Anyways, on with the chapter!

“Hey,” Porthos murmured, pressing a kiss to Athos’ bare shoulder. The pair were sprawled out on Athos’ four poster bed, a thin summer sheet covering the bare minimum of the bodies, “Don’t go quiet on me now…”

Porthos’ gentle fingers ran up and over Athos’ bare back, drawing those same letters which Athos had fantasised about earlier. His whole body sagged in a state of blissed out numbness, every muscle like water.

Another kiss was pressed carefully in response to the silence, this time against Athos’ spine.

“Are you having regrets?” The hands stilled, and then withdrew, “Would you rather I go?”

That got Athos’ attention. He rolled over onto his back, reaching out a hand and hooking round Porthos’ head. He tugged the man close into a lazy, drawn out kiss. Fingers wound themselves into the man’s tight curls, wrapping the strands round his fingers like an anchor.

“That was amazing…” Athos smiled when they finally broke apart, blue eyes finding Porthos’ brown, “You’re amazing, I’m just... Not sure my mind is working anymore. I think you saw to that quite completely…”

“Oh did I?” Porthos smirked in a way which suggested he was horribly pleased with himself, “Well weren’t not so bad yourself… “

Athos curled round around until his head was on Porthos’ chest. A moment later those strong, distracting arms wrapped them tightly together. He nuzzled his face against Porthos’ skin. He was still surprised just how _warm_ the man was.

“So you’ve done that before..?” Athos asked tentatively.

The low rumble of Porthos’ laugh tickled through Athos’ face.

“You really want to talk of my former lovers now?”

Athos squirmed, head attempting to burrow down away from Porthos’ laugh, “Well I wasn’t expecting a list… But I mean, does it always feel like that?”

“Every time is different…” Porthos mused, brushing another kiss to Athos’ wavy hair, “But the feeling is similar, yea. Of course if you didn’t like it there are other things were could try… We could switch, or…”

But Athos shook his head, “I did like it. A lot. It felt -  God, Porthos you have no idea… I never imagined…”

Porthos shushed Athos’ rambles and kissed his crown again, “I think you’ve definitely lost your inhibitions if nothing else…”

The pair fell silent, their breathing rising and falling in sync. Porthos was still drawing letters on his back, the action lulling Athos into a deep relaxed state. His eyes drooped shut as Athos slipped into sleep. By the time Porthos spoke again, Athos had to mumble out a “what?”

“I said I should go… I’m meant to be serving breakfast in the morning, it will be an early start.”

Athos didn’t much like the sound of that. Not at all. He  shuffled closer to the big man with a frown. “Stay…”

Porthos’ lips traced along Athos’ brow bone, pressing small kisses to all the skin he could reach. “But I’ll wake you early.”

Athos tightened his hold on Porthos’ middle, anchoring them together.

“Stay.”

A chuckle rumbled out of Porthos. He settled back on the pillows, Athos kept close to his chest.

“As you wish…”

* * *

 

As Athos awoke he became aware of two things. First was the tendrils of summer sun which had begun to lick into the room, bathing the bed in a golden glow. It was nice. The second thing was that he, in the bed, was alone. That wasn’t so nice.

Athos blew out a breath and rolled over onto his back, stretching in search of a body but he definitely was alone.

No Porthos…

Well… Porthos had warned him. Still, being alone in the sheets as memories slid back through the haze of sleep left Athos feeling awkward, exposed. The absence of the furnace which was Porthos made the whole bed cold and no part of Athos wanted to stay there alone.

He threw back the sheets and began to dress for the day, a slight ache the only reminder of the night before.

The night before…

Heat rose in Athos’ cheeks at the memories which crowded into his mind. Of Porthos’ hands tracing the length of his spine, promises whispered along his shoulders which made him shiver with excitement. It had felt good, so much better than Athos had ever dared hope. He’d spent his whole life fearing damnation, fearing the part of him which was different to others. For as long Athos could remember he had live in fear of a part of himself which, yesterday, Porthos had treasured. Athos had let his walls down, let Porthos strip away all the layers of defences and loved what he had found.

If Porthos was what lead to damnation then it just might be worth it.

After giving himself the once over, ensuring there were no tell-tail bruises or bite marks, Athos let himself out of his room and headed down one floor to the morning room. Aramis was already there, reclining in a chair at the table, the newspaper in one hand and a tea cup in the other. Memories of what he’d heard (Lord had that only been yesterday?) spun through his mind. Suddenly, compared to his own revelations, they didn’t seem so huge.

Aramis glanced up, the smile taking on a nervous when he saw his friend.

“Athos!” He went to rise but Athos waved him away, settling himself down in the chair opposite, “Crosswire said you were ill?”

“Migraine. Nothing serious, I suspect too much sun, or too little water. You know how temperamental my head can be. By the time I got back to the stable block it was all I could do to tie up the horse and get out the sun,” At Athos’ words he observed Aramis’ smile become a little more relaxed, “Forgive me.”

Aramis tossed the newspaper to the side, “Bah, nothing to forgive. I’m just glad you’re feeling better, I was thinking that perhaps today we could – Ah, du Vallon, thank you.”

Athos jerked as Porthos appeared at his side, how did a man of such bulk move so quietly? The very proximity made a shudder run down Athos’ spin, memories of what exactly Porthos was doing the last time he was so close slipping into his mind. Athos attempted to catch his eye, but the Valet kept his eyes down as he placed a teacup and saucer in front of Athos and stepped back.

_Look at me,_ Athos begged silently, but Porthos didn’t. Instead he looked straight passed the man he’d spent the night with, up to Aramis. He tucked his hands behind his back, addressing him.

“Does Sir wish breakfast to be served now or are we waiting for Mr Rochefort?”

Athos frowned. Why was Porthos ignoring him? Tension began to swell in his stomach. Was last night a one-time thing? A regret?

“No, thank you, du Vallon. I doubt my Uncle will be joining us, just go ahead and start serving?“

“As you wish, Sir.”

Aramis continued to chatter aimlessly as Porthos begun the breakfast, but Athos wasn’t paying much attention. Instead he did his best to catch Porthos’ gaze from behind his morning tea, but the man’s dark eyes refused to deviate from his work.

_Why, just look up, you –_

“Athos?” Aramis frowned, pausing in the slicing of his toast, “Are you listening?”

Athos blinked, eyes snapping back to his friend’s face.

“Sorry?”

“I knew your head was away with the angels, what’s on your mind?”

“I…” Athos swallowed, “Forgive me. It the remainder of the headache. Nothing some tea isn’t doing away with.”

The reason seemed to pacify Aramis, who smiled, “I was saying that –“

But what exactly Aramis _was_ saying was cut short by the morning room’s door opening.

“It’s the height of rudeness to begin serving before all are seated,” A callous voice cut through the room. All heads swivelled to the door, taking in the figure of Marc Rochefort by the door, “But then what else can be expected when the service has no class.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Porthos swallowed. Nervousness tugged at his features. For a moment Athos was surprised to see it, but then he remembered that Porthos’ job floated or sank by Rochefort’s word, a man who was currently glaring at him. “Let me prepare you –“

“Uncle, I _asked_ du Vallon to start serving,” Aramis cut in as the older man sat down, “I didn’t expect you to be joining us since you’re rarely awake in time for breakfast.”

Athos attempted to cover his laugh around a cough, but thought himself to only be partially successful.

Rochefort snapped his fingers at Porthos, who dutifully set down the breakfast tea in front of the man. Athos bristled.

“My schedule is none of your concern, Aramis. You just be content with your gallivanting around the countryside with your friend –“ His eyes snapped to Athos, eyeing him with disregard. “What’s your name again?”

“Athos, Sir,” Athos said with an incline of his head. The man might be vile, but Athos was nothing if not polite.

“With _Athos_ ,” Rochefort took a swig of tea, looking disinterestedly at the breakfast in front of him, “In my day men learned a trade, joined the army or did God’s own work. You and your meandering in England, an extended childhood! What life is about can’t be learned in books, you experience it – you live it! You have no idea, Aramis, no concept and you wont until you get your nose out of books and grow up!”

“There is still time to do all those things, Uncle,” Aramis spoke with a sigh, with a weariness of a man who had been part of this same conversation many times.

“The books slow you down, Boy! Your father never understood that, or my sister – “

“Time spend in the pursuit of knowledge is never time wasted, Sir,” Athos cut in, although was close to regretting it when the glare was turned on him.

“Oh? And you vast life experience has taught you that has it? Your, what, _nineteen_ years on this earth?”

Athos sat up a little straighter, bristling, “That would be twenty four, Sir.”

“An overgrown child! Like I thought. That’s the problem with you and your generation, _Athos,_ you all just have no idea what hard work _really_ is. You really have no idea, no concept of what real hard work looks like, only your books and – Ah!”

Rochefort broke of his rant as a splash of tea landed on his hand as Porthos refilled his china cup. The man snatched his hand away as Porthos took a step back, teapot still clutched in his hands.

“Sorry Sir I –“

“Idiot!” Rochefort spat, shoving away from the table with an intense glare, “You half breed, cretinous – my hand!” He grasped the appendage to his chest as if he’d taken a bullet through it skin instead of a slightly red mark. “You scalded me!”

“My hand slipped – forgive me I –“

“And _this_ is why _dogs_ stay _outside_!”

The vile words had Athos on his feet, his own vicious words on his lips but Rochefort just kept going.

“I’ll have your job and if you think you’ll be getting any kind of reference from this position you’re sourly mistaken!“

“Uncle, no one is losing their position!” Aramis pushed himself up from his chair, knuckles pressed against the expensive wood, “It was an accident, du Vallon apologised. What more do you want? You won’t dismiss a man over a God’s honest mistake!”

“I am still in charge of this estate, Aramis. This estate and its staff are _my_ responsibility, or have you forgotten that?”

“I have not,” Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, glaring without reservation now, “And I hope you’ve not forgotten that your place here is my family’s discretion and my father thinks highly of my opinion. Now I suggest you come with me and we can get you some ice from the kitchens.”

Rochefort’s eyes narrowed into a well-honed fury. For a moment Athos wondered whether the older man was going to continue the argument, every inch of the man was wound tight, poised to snap, ready for a fight. Athos tensed unsure of what exactly he could say, whether punching the man was simply a better option.

But then Rochefort turned, casting a final filthy look in Porthos’ direction-

“You should keep him on a leash.”

\- and swept from the room.

It took a heartbeat for the tension to seep from the room. Aramis was the first to break, a sigh puffing from his lips. He rubbed a hand through his hair, giving it a ruffled appearance.

“Well they say you can’t pick your family….” He turned to Porthos, “Are you alright, du Vallon?”

Porthos swallowed, finally setting the teapot down onto the wooden table. He nodded, his eyes, however, still a little too tight.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for that…”

“My uncle is many things, but a gentleman is hardly one of them. He has little regard for what he cannot understand. A thirst for knowledge is one of them and I’m only sorry that the colour of your skin seems to be another….”

Porthos just shrugged, beginning to clear the breakfast plates which had clearly been abandoned.

“Hardly the first time it’s happened, Sir.”

“Porthos that doesn’t make it okay!” The name was out of Athos’ mouth before he could stop it. He ignored the surprised look Aramis gave him, eyes glued to Porthos, “How can you put up with that? _Why_ do you put up with it?”

When Porthos ignored him Athos reached out, grabbing his wrists to still them, “Porthos!”

But the big man drew back, the touch burning every bit as much as the tea. The tension was back in face, fine lines creasing around his eyes as they finally found Athos.

“That’s my job, Mr de la Fère.”

_Mr de la Fère…_ Athos felt like he’d been punched. He opened his mouth, waited for words, any words, but none came.

Thank God for Aramis, who could never stand a silence.

“Your job is not to deal with rudeness, du Vallon. I’ll speak with my father on his return. My uncle was out of line, no one deserves to be spoken to like that.”

Porthos inclined his head, “That’s very kind of you, Mr Aramis,” He hoisted the half finished breakfast plates onto his shoulder, “Am I dismissed?”

Aramis nodded, “Of course, du Vallon. Dismissed. We’ll ring if we require you.”

And then Porthos was gone, just like that. Athos was half tempted to go after him, but stopped himself. Clearly Porthos wanted to act like last night hadn’t happened, Athos would respect that, Aramis was still giving him a curious look.

“Why did you call him his first name?”

Athos forced his shoulders to shrug, “In France all staff go by first names, not second. I asked him.”

“Ahh…” Aramis sounded satisfied enough even if his eyes did linger questionably on his friend, who suddenly looked a great deal more depressed than he had five minutes ago. “How about a ride, let’s get away from the house for a bit… What do you say?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the absence but it's lovely to be back and get all caught up with that I've missed.
> 
> Hope this next chapter is worth the wait :)

Riding was good for soul. By the time they arrived back to the estate Athos’ frustration had returned to more manageable level, even if it hadn’t disappeared completely. Aramis also served as good a distraction as any horse, especially when the conversation turned towards his uncle.

“He and Father have never gotten along,” Aramis explained as they walked the horses up the final section of the hill to the stable block, “Like ever. He tolerates Rochefort for my mother’s sake. She begged him to find him a position after the Glasgow scandal…”

“You never did say what happened in Glasgow,” Athos pointed out, careful to keep his tone neutral even if he did want to know.

“Oh, right,” Aramis glanced at Athos over his horse’s neck, “Well Mother’s family, the Rochefort’s made their money in owning and running factories. Grandfather used to swear that his success came from two things; hard work and respect for his employees. He believed that contented workers became diligent workers, so he always made sure his families were well looked after. All workers were paid a fair wage, given lodgings for them and their family, there was even a physician which was called in an emergency who grandfather would pay. He always used to tell me that _“Your business was only as strong as your workforce”._ Mother understood that, but Uncle never did. When Grandfather passed away Uncle took over the business… Well, I don’t know the ins and outs exactly, but he began making cuts wherever he could.”

Athos frowned, “So the fair wages, the emergency physician?”

“They were the first to go,” Aramis sighed, “Then he started charging rent, lengthening their working day… Mother heard what was happening and confronted him, but all Uncle could see was his profits. I think it did work, at least for a little while, in the first two years profits soared…”

“So how did he end up here?”

Aramis swallowed, his eyes tensing with pain, “There was a fire. Too many workers in a too small-a space. Repairs hadn’t been done to an old staircase and it collapsed, trapping most of the people inside. Eighty-six workers died. Everything my Grandfather had built, the reputation the name ‘Rochefort’ stood for was obliterated. People were out for blood, which is why Father offered my Uncle a job up here, away from the people who wanted to see him hang.”

The pair turned into the stable block as the story came to a close. Athos hand an uncomfortable lump in his throat. Eighty-six people… For what? For profit? For money. Rochefort’s face, all smirking lips and cold glare, slide into Athos’ imagination. Did the man even care? He certainly didn’t seem like a man who carried guilt.

“Ah, d’Artagnan!” Aramis’ shout cut through Athos’ musing. He looked up in time to see his friend summon a stable hand. The boy, because to call him a man seemed over ambitious, couldn’t be more than nineteen. He was a tall wiry thing, with dark, sleek hair which was tied away from his face with a red ribbon. Athos could see strands of hay stuck into his hair and clothes, a smile tugging at his lips as he approached his employer.

“Mr Aramis, Mr de La Fère, welcome back. Did you enjoy your ride?”

Familiarity tickled at the edges of Athos’ mind at the boy’s words. He handed over the reins of his horse, watching with a curious gaze as Aramis did the same.

“Glorious, thank you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis stretched his fingers through his own hair, his eyes locked on the stable hand with those mischievous eyes, “Why do you always look as if you’ve had a hay bale dropped on you?”

The younger man flushed pink, touching his hair, as if surprised to find the golden strands stuck there. Aramis leant forward and plucked some of the largest strands away.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Suddenly understanding crashed over Athos. He knew exactly where he knew d'Artagnan from. It wasn't his face which was familiar, it was his voice. The voice from the stable…

Athos bent forward, concentrating hard on the buckle of his saddlebag. He pretended not to notice how Aramis’ hand lingered just a second too long on the boy’s hair, how it stroked the dark strands even once the worst of the mess was gone.

_Oh Aramis, what are you thinking?_

Although, given last night, Athos realised he had little right to judge.

“Well, hopefully I’ve left enough hay for this beauty to have a nice bed,” d’Artagnan smiled as he turned to Aramis’ mare, stroking the dark horse’s white flash between her eyes, “Even if I ended up wearing most of it…” d’Artagnan’s eyes flicked back up to Athos and he could have sworn something in the younger man’s gaze tightened. It was subtle, an involuntary twitch of muscles which betrayed his emotions.

Jealousy perhaps?

The idea made Athos want to laugh. He and Aramis had been close friends for years, but the idea of anything more than that seemed preposterous.

It seemed, however, like d’Artagnan didn’t agree. With one last mistrusting gaze he turned back to Aramis. Athos watched his shoulder loosen the moment their eyes found each other.

“I’ll take good care of them, Sir.”

“Thank you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis turned and grasped Athos’ saddlebag, settling it up on his shoulder, “Come Athos, we’re burning sunlight.”

They turned towards the main house. It wasn’t a long walk and they had only gone a few steps before Athos gave him a sideways glance.

He should leave it alone, good God he knew he should. Ignorance in this situation was be vest defense. Forget that he’d seen those little touches between the men. He should ignore it… He should…

“That boy,” Athos couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, “He barely looks old enough to shave.”

It had been a mistake. Athos watched as tension gripped his friends’ body, tendons in his neck tightening. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” Athos held up his hands in mock surrender, “Just most of your staff seem to have been here forever, but unless he started here before he was taller than those horses he must be new.”

“He began this summer season, what of it?” Aramis’ reply was a little defensive, his lips turning into a tight thin line.

‘ _W_ _hat of it is that you’re doing God knows what with him in the stable block!’_

Instead Athos just shrugged, “No reason…”

They walked silently the rest of the way, Aramis’ face taught with an expression which had Athos cursing himself for ever bringing d’Artagnan up. It wasn’t like he didn’t have his own secrets. His own _unique_ pressure point. He should never have attempted to find Aramis’.

As the pair moved up the steps they realised the house was far livelier than how they’d left it. Two maids stood in the main hall, wiping down picture frames and dusting the antiques, while Crosswire ordered a third and fourth rooms to clean.

“Crosswire?” Aramis called as they pair stepped through the doorway, “What’s going on?”

“Ah, Mr Aramis,” The older man nodded, his mouth curled in a smile which looked surprisingly sincere, “Word just arrived by courier, your Mother and Father should arriving home by last light tomorrow.”

Aramis’ sour face morphed and smoothed itself into a kid who had been told Christmas had been moved forward six months. A grin broke over his face.

“Really? Fantastic! Where’s the letter?”

Crosswire, his small little smile growing, handed over paper. Aramis’s eyes scurried across the cursive, drinking in the words from his father like a dying man. By the end he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I haven’t seen them since Christmas, they were already in Inverness by the time I made it here from Oxford,” The young man spun, the eyes that found Athos were bright with excitement, “Let’s go out and celebrate. There’s a tavern in the village that has a couple of decent ales and _plenty_ of whisky – what do you say?”

For a second Athos hesitated. If Porthos came again tonight, either for his lesson or something else, then Athos wanted to be there. But then he remembered the cold formalness of Porthos’ speech that morning, the way the man had refused to even look at him.

He wouldn’t come… It had been a onetime thing, it had to have been… So why not go get drunk with a friend who chased a celebration.

“Alright, if you wish.”

* * *

 

It had been a long time since the pair had been drinking together. There may be plenty of options within Oxford but with both men preoccupied with their studies merriment had been forced into the second tear of importance.

But that night Athos remembered just how much fun Aramis could be once they both had a few drinks in them. The pub was a typical village tavern a little over a half hour’s walk away, but had enough alcohol to keep the boys busy until well after sun down. By the time the pair had been chased out by the bar tender’s wife, Aramis had an arm slung around Athos’ neck, his shirt untucked from his trousers and his eyes bright and shining with liquor.

“You, are the _best_ friend, any man could ever ask for!” Aramis laughed, nudging the smaller man’s hair with his chin, “You know that don’t you?”

“So you keep telling me,” Athos smirked. He tucked an arm around Aramis’ waist to keep him upright, causing the man to smile and settle his chin on top of Athos’ head. Athos’ made a show of huffing, but didn’t force Aramis off him. The theology student had consumed a great deal more alcohol than him and while Athos did feel a certain buzz, Aramis felt like he could fly.

“I do tell you, I do because it’s true!” Aramis seemed to sing the last section, his voice too loud in the darkened night, “You’re my buuuudddy, I would trust you with the world, with my deepest, _darkest_ , secrets…”

_With d’Artagnan…_ Athos added silently in his head.

“Do you know how _happy_ I was when you told me you were coming to stay – when I realised I wasn’t going to be stuck with my bastard Uncle all summer. And then – then I met –“

Athos tensed, waiting for Aramis to go past the point of no return in his sharing, but then the man broke off. His chin disappeared from Athos’ head as Aramis stumbled away, back towards the village rather than the manor.

“Aramis the pub is _closed_!” Athos turned after his friend who was now striding purposefully back towards a farm house set back from the road, “Home is this way, _bed_ is this way!”

“I’ve got someone to meet, before I head back there,” Aramis turned, suddenly voice a little more sober, much more determined.

“Aramis…” No prizes for guessing who lived in that farm house.

_The kid probably still lives with his parents._

“I’ll come back, I’ll be half an hour behind you,” Aramis waved him away, walking backwards with a surprising dexterity, “One hour at the _absolute_ most!”

Athos didn’t want to leave his friend but knew a losing battle when he saw one. He summoned his best stare, eyes narrowed at his retreating friend.

“Stay out of trouble Aramis, I swear I am not going to fish your sorry state out of the Lake.”

Aramis made a motion on crossing himself – Lord, what was a little more blasphemy? – and offered one of his best smiles.

“I’ll stay out of trouble – goodnight, my friend!”

And then Athos was alone.

With a muttered curse towards his friend’s disappearing back he turned and made his way back to the Manor. Aramis was still on his mind, but at least there weren’t any shouts or screams from the village that suggested he hadn’t wandered into the wrong person’s bed.

That man would be the death of him…

At the very least the walk did wonders to clear Athos’ head and, by the time he made it the grounds of the estate, he felt quite like his normal self. The slight chill from the cloudless summer night sharpened his senses, so he was sure he wasn’t imagining it when something in the shadows _moved_.

“Hello?”

Silence pressed in around the man and the night stilled again.

Still, Athos was _sure_ his eyes, not matter the amount of alcohol in his system, were not lying to him.

“Who’s there?”

The darkness moved again, out of the shadows of the big house, and into the moonlight. Recognition of the figure hit him like a punch in the stomach.

“Porthos?”

Maybe he was drunker than he’d thought, because _what_ would the man who’d so constantly plagued his thoughts by doing outside, waiting for him like he’d been left as a gift by the almighty. Porthos smiled and, good God, Athos felt something leap into his chest.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I was gettin’ ready when I saw you coming up the hill from the window,” Porthos motioned down at himself, and Athos realised that normally bloody shirt was undone, revealing the white undershirt. His bare feet were also stuffed into shoes, as if a decision had been made on the spot.

But why was he here? Porthos had seemed completely content on forgetting the night before had ever happened. It was part of the reason Athos had agreed to the bloody drinking – it seemed better than just sitting in his room, waiting for the knock which he doubted would come.

“I missed you.”

Missed him?

“But I thought… After this morning…” Athos swallowed, trailing off and feeling ridiculous. Heat prickled his skin and rose up into his neck.

Porthos’ brows lowered in confusion.

“Thought what?” He took step forward and reached out a hand to take hold of Athos’ elbow, drawing him closer. Athos allowed himself to be moved, until he could _feel_ Porthos all around him, the body heat radiating and pulsing against his own skin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

Athos realised how ridiculous he sounded, how clingy and desperate he must appear, but as his head settled against Porthos’ chest, his arms finding their place around the older man’s waist, let out a sigh. He’d been wrong, apparently, but that didn’t mean he understood.

“When you wouldn’t look at me during breakfast I… I thought maybe you had changed your mind about, this.”

“Changed my mind about you?” Porthos’ hand found Athos’ chin and firmly raised it until they could lock eyes. “Never. This morning it was… Difficult.”

The word ‘ _difficult’_ made Athos tense and Porthos cursed in immediate regret. Athos attempted to pull away, embarrassment rearing its head again, but Porthos wouldn’t let him.

“ _You_ were not difficult,” Porthos’ thumb ran across Athos’ cheekbone, “It was all I could do _not_ to drag you out of that chair and kiss you up against the wall. No, it was the whole bloody situation which was difficult. With Mr Aramis there, and then Mr Rochefort… All I wanted to do was…” Porthos broke off, with the dirtiest grin Athos had ever seen, “Well I had to do my job, distractions aside.”

The idea that _he’d_ been distracting to Porthos made Athos feel guilty in the best possible way. Part of Athos still couldn’t believe that _he_ was capable of distracting the man who in front of him. After all Porthos was so big and broad with a smile which lit up any room he was in. He was beautiful in every possible way… The idea that Porthos looked at him in that same way seemed completely impossible.

“But now…” Porthos’ smooth voice pulled Athos out of his own thoughts, “Distractions aren’t a problem, are they? No one’s around, the manor is asleep… I have you all to myself.”

All those feelings from last night flooded back to Athos, the white hot squirming excitement which had left him open and begging and so _so_ blisteringly hot. Athos shuddered as he felt Porthos’ large hands slip down, finding his hips with a tight squeeze.

“Me and you under the cover of darkness night…” Porthos' heavy words ghosted across Athos’ lips, tickling his skin and leaving scorching prints in their wake, “Sound good to you?”

Porthos waited, eyes on Athos. As much as he teased, as much as he flirted, he needed to know Athos was as into this as he was. Bravado aside, Porthos had no wish to put the man into a position in which he was uncomfortable.

But then Athos smiled. Eyes bright with excitement his hand reached up, hooking Porthos’ head and dragged him down. Their teeth clashed together in a desperate, messy kiss. Porthos grunted in surprise, hands tugging Athos closer against his body until their hips were flush against each other. It was just as good as Athos remembered, if not better as the thrill of being outside fuelled their excitement.

“Good Lord…” Porthos exhaled when they finally broke apart, “Athos, you are something else…” He smirked, feeling irrationally proud at the swollen lips he had left the other man with.

“Oh? And I suppose I am bringing this on myself?” Athos arched an eyebrow which drew a deep laugh from Porthos.

“Oh definitely,” Porthos pressed a not-so-gentle kiss to Athos’ neck which left the younger man gasping, “I’m powerless to your charms. You leave me incapable of resisting you or that smile or that arse or-“

Porthos broke up, freezing mid sentence.

Athos pulled back a little so he could look Porthos in the eye, smirking despite the abrupt change. “What were you saying about my arse?”

“I…” Porthos frowned, looking up over Athos’ shoulder to the main house. “I thought I saw something move in the window…”

The frown was infectious. Athos craned his neck round, staring up at the imposing house. But it was still. Darkness filled every one of the large windows, without so much as burnt out orange from an abandoned fire place. The world was quiet, as if he and Porthos were the only people left in it.

“A shadow of a tree?” Athos suggested, turning back to face the man in front of him. He frowned. Porthos’ face still held a degree of nerves, skin tightened around his eyes with stress. Gently Athos reached up, smoothing the skin around his eyes with his gentle strokes of his thumb.

“The world’s asleep… But it you’d rather we could… go somewhere else?”

It was the offer that finally broke the stress on Porthos’ face. His face immediately lit up as he smiled and he ducked, stealing another quick kiss.

“Tomorrow night… You owe me a reading lesson,” Porthos fixed him with his best attempt at a stern gaze although after a moment his eyebrow cocked in unmistakable filth which made the most amazing tremor run through Athos, “Then maybe I’ll continue your lessons in depravity..?”

Athos shuddered with excitement. Yes. Yes he wanted that. The reading lesson sure but especially _his_ own lessons…. Good God he _needed_ that. Part of Athos wanted to convince Porthos to change tomorrow into tonight, but it was late, and Porthos would be expected to work in the morning.

“Tomorrow, are you serving breakfast?”

At Porthos’ nod Athos smiled, touching one last kiss to the corner of his lips.

“I will try my hardest to keep my attractiveness under control… Good night, Porthos.”

The bigger man grinned, letting his hold linger a little longer on Athos’ waist, before regretfully drawing back with one last grin.

“Goodnight, Athos…”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your wonderful reviews and kudos. We're coming to the end of our story, only two chapters left. It's all beginning to go wrong, and I will be updating tags and warnings accordingly. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

There was something wrong with the morning. Athos could feel it as he navigated the halls. It wasn’t just his hangover, which wasn’t terrible although definitely present, but something in the early air. By the time he reached the morning room Athos had narrowed down exactly what was bothering him. The manor was quiet. No, scratch that. It was silent. There was always a hum of activity during these hours, maids beginning their routines, Crosswire directing the cleaning. He expected this morning to be even more lively, with Aramis’ parents arriving before last light there was likely much to do. But, Athos noted with mounting confusion, the halls were quiet.

The morning room was deserted too. No Aramis, or Rochefort… No Porthos.  Athos frowned at the grandfather clock, wondering if he’d slept passed breakfast with the help of the alcohol, but he was only a few minutes late.

The silence in the morning room was stiflingly heavy, the ticking of the clock the only thing brave enough to face it. The frown of Athos’ face deepened, the headache now forgotten as a mere irritant as he stepped towards the window. He tugged the lace inner curtain away from the pane of glass. Outside was alive with life, more so than any of the manor. A kitchen boy and maid _ran_ across Athos’ sphere of vison and disappeared up towards the stable block, followed moments later by one of the garden hands. Running… Why? What on Earth had come over the staff?

Footsteps thundered down the hallway and forced Athos’ gaze way from the strange scene outside. He spun to see Crosswire in the doorway. The man looked, and there didn’t seem to be a better word, panicked. Athos had thought the head butler was unflappable, but this wide eyed anxiety proved otherwise.

“Crosswire? What’s-“

“Mr Aramis!” Crosswire cut across him, eyes roaming the room desperately as if Athos had perhaps hidden him under the table, “Where is he?”

“Not here,” Athos hurriedly pushed away from the window, eyes narrowing on the older man as his features melted into sheer panic. “I think he stayed in the village last night, too much to drink. Where the devil is everyone? What’s – Crosswire?”

But the man had already turned, polished shoes hammering on the wooden floor as he hurried back the way he had come.

“ _Crosswire!”_

But the man had already disappeared towards the grand staircase which led to the grounds.  Athos cursed and took off after him. The man moved surprisingly quickly on his feet because, by the time Athos’ feet landed on the gravel outside the manor, the man was nowhere in sight.

Damn it.

Athos grabbed the first member of staff he saw, a young woman who clearly worked in the kitchen judging by the amount of flour on her apron and in her hair. He hooked her elbow with a strong grip and drew her under his stern gaze. Her eyes were big, round in fear over whatever had the estate in a frenzy that morning.

“What’s your name?”

The girl took a nervous breath, eyes darting between Athos and the track which led to the stable block.

“Uh, Erica, Sir…”

“Erica,” Athos repeated, having to fight the urge to look up towards follow her gaze up to the apparent source of the commotion, “What in the Lord’s name is going on?”

The kitchen girl, Erica, looked about ready to burst into tears. Athos suddenly realised it could easily be down to the death grip he still held her arm in. He promptly let go, but it didn’t seem to make a difference as the girl opened and closed her mouth, seemingly having trouble finding words.

“Erica,” Athos prompted, “What has happened?”

The girl took an unsteady breathe which seemed drop her anxiety levels enough for her to speak.

“Mr Rochefort he – he said he saw -“ The girl’s hand gestured wildly, “That new boy, he said he saw him with another man! He has him up at the stable block. The man’s in a rage! He’s crazed, he’s – Sir?”

But Athos was already moving, his mind already whirring. Erica forgotten he turned towards the commotion. It had to be d’Artagnan. Rochefort had seen d’Artagnan – somehow, it didn’t matter how – and now he was –

Athos sprinted up towards the barn, Crosswire’s desperation suddenly crystal clear. He couldn’t stop Rochefort, none of the staff could. He needed the real head of the household and since Aramis’ Father was still gone that technically only left Aramis.

And Athos was fairly sure Aramis had stayed out all night doing God knows what with the stable boy.  The stable boy who Rochefort now had…

“Athos?”

The unexpected voice made Athos miss a step as he ran and he almost lost his footing completely. Instead he whirled around, looking for the voice. Aramis, still wearing the dark trousers and white shirt of the night before, was strolling up the gravel path. His dark curls stuck up in an array of directions, the overall look screaming that he hadn’t yet been to his own bed. He smiled easily at his friend, although his face tensed as he took in Athos’ panicked expression.

“What’s going on?”

But there was no time to explain it all. Instead Athos shoved the man off the path and into a line of trees, out of the way of prying eyes. Athos shot a nervous look over his shoulder, but no one was watching. When he turned back he cut to the central question, to the crucks of the matter.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?”

Aramis jerked as if he’d been slapped. The shock spread all across his face, a denial hastily formed and placed on his lips. His face swam for a moment between surprise, and nausea, before settling on defensive anger.

“d’Artagnan? Why should I know where he is? What’s your problem, Athos?”

Oh for the love of – There wasn’t time for this!

Athos ran a hand savagely through his hair. He stepped forward and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, gripping hard even as Aramis began to tug back.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you still drunk? Let me go you –“

“I _know,_ ” Athos whispered the confession, carrying on speaking as Aramis froze in his attempts to get away, eyes widening in surprise which quickly gave way to terror. “I know, alright? I heard you and him that day in the barn and I know where you really were last night. I don’t care, I promise. You and d’Artagnan, I don’t care but I think Rochefort knows too. Now _where_ is d’Artagnan?”

For once, Athos seemed to have shocked his friend to the core. Aramis’ face seemed to pale under Athos’ gaze, his lips for once without a sarcastic retort. When the words finally came they were cracked, a choked out admittance. A confession.

“He hasn’t come to work yet… I, I left before him. Isn’t his job to turn the horses out this morning so he can come in later.”

Athos faltered. But the girl – Erica? – had said… How can d’Artagnan not be in work and still be –

Then the pieces fell together.

d’Artagnan wasn’t the only new employee. He might be new in the most traditional sense, but there was another who was new. Perhaps not new to estate but new to the house. Someone who had gone from the gardens to a serving position making it completely possible for a cook’s assistant not to know his name.

Cold realisation, smooth and slippery like an adder, slid around Athos’ neck and down his spine.

No… No, no. It couldn’t be. Rochefort couldn’t have – but then there was movement at the window last night. Athos would have been hard to identify. With his back to the manor and his ten a penny looks he could have been anyone. But Porthos? That would have been all too easy.

“Go get d’Artagnan. Get away from the Estate,” Aramis opened his mouth, ready to disagree, but Athos shook his head, “It’s not safe. If the authorities haven’t been summoned it will only be a matter of time. Go. You don’t want to be around here when that happens. I’ll say you went into the city to find a new horse – they’ll believe that if you take the boy. I don’t know _what’s_ going to happen but you need to not be here. At least not until your father has returned. Do you understand?”

A beat of silence passed between then as Aramis processed the information, but Athos didn’t have time for that.

“Do you _understand_?” Athos pressed.

Aramis nodded a little shakily, “Yes I – yes I do. I… Thank you, Athos, I –“

“There’s no time for that,” The panic was rising inside Athos now, nausea mixing with fear. He needed to leave. He needed to get up to the stables to see exactly what… “Go now, before d’Artagnan shows up for work.”

“Right, I… Right…” Aramis summoned one last shaky smile as he stepped backwards, back the way he’d come.

Part of Athos wanted to wait to watch until he was sure Aramis was following his instructions, but he didn’t have time. He turned and began his sprint back up towards the stable block.

Towards Porthos.

* * *

Shouting swelled out from the building long before Athos could see the details. Low level buzz swarmed from the group of spectators, angry bellows and cries slicing through them at regular intervals.

Athos, finished with manners and proper etiquette, shoved his way through the crowd with his fists and elbows until he could see the unobstructed view in front of him. The ground seemed to shudder beneath him.

_Good Lord, no…_

Porthos’ white shirt was stained crimson in long patches, along with a good amount of the hay covered cobbles. His wrists were lashed behind his back with thick rope, one end tied to the man and the other looped through a stand ring meant for horses. The rope was tight, forcing the man to remain upright on his knees even as the large form swayed, threatening to lose balance. The man’s face was a mass of swelling, bruising and blood, one eye completely swollen shut and an engorged lip. Thin, deep cuts criss-crossed his body, the worse running from an eyebrow and into the hair line, the oozing fluid seeping into his dark curls and matting them down against his scalp.

Vomit rose in Athos’ throat and his whole body stiffened as Porthos swayed again, seemingly only seconds away from unconsciousness.

“I do not allow _sodomites_ on my estate!” Rochefort spat. Athos’ eyes were tugged to the other man, who ran an empty hand through Porthos’ hair. A moment later the hand enclosed into a fist and Rochefort yanked it backwards. Porthos hissed, although his good eye did seem to focus on the face above him. That, surely, was a good sign.

“I will not allow dirty _mutts_ to degrade the moral fibre of my estate just because my nephew has a bleeding heart.” Rochefort let the hair go with a shove and Porthos slumped forward. The injured man couldn’t see what was coming, but Athos could. He choked as he watched Rochefort raise his other hand, enclosed within it a long horse whip, “I will not allow-“

And Athos seemed to unfreeze. Without considering the possible ramifications he stormed out of the group of onlookers. He caught Rochefort’s wrist, fingernails biting into his skin, just as it began to descend. The whip cracked against thin air as Rochefort’s arm was flung backwards. Good. The more distance between Rochefort and Porthos the better.

“What is this? A lynch mob?” Athos spat at the man, who, although initially shocked recovered quickly enough. Rochefort’s lips curled, regarding Athos with a look of distain which one may hold for a meddling child.

“How I manage _my_ staff is of no concern of visitors.”

Athos’ fury, white hot acidic venom bubbled right beneath the surface of his realm of control, but he forced it back down. He needed to be smart. What Athos _wanted_ to do was punch the smirking bastard in the face, but he forced himself to think tactfully. He had a sensible head on his shoulders, it was time to use it.

“I’m afraid if you manage your staff as their judge, jury and executioner then, yes, it is my concern,” Athos forced himself to keep his eyes locked on Rochefort, even as Porthos grunted and attempted to look up at the sound of Athos’ voice. “Unless, that is, that this estate exists out with the reach of your crown and government and your king has given autonomy to create laws within land you don’t even own.”

Rochefort’s face twisted, realising Athos was no interfering kid and instead a real adversary. He may not put much stock in ‘book learning’, but it was currently Athos’ knowledge of the British justice system learned through his education in Oxford which was standing between him and who he wished to punish.

“I witnessed him with another man myself, de la Fere. It is a clear breech of this fine country’s law,” Rochefort’s eyes dragged themselves from Athos’ feet to crown, a sneer twisting his features, “Which again you are guest in.”

“I am a guest,” Athos conceded with a bored sigh, his hand waving away the fact as if it had little consequence, “But I daresay I am better versed in your laws than you are. And you are currently breaking them.”

“Any what would you have me do?” Rochefort’s eyes snapped back down to Porthos, contempt oozing from every part of him, “Just allow this sodomite to continue degrading our home? Allow his crimes against nature to go unpunished?”

Athos raised an eyebrow, “And there was me thinking it was only our Lord Almighty who could judge.” A ripple shot through the crowd. “If you believe a crime has been committed then send for a magistrate or inspector from the city. But we are not animals Mr Rochefort, without laws to govern us how could we hope to be any different?”

Silence stretched between the pair as Rochefort twisted in fury. Once upon a time that look might have made Athos flinch, but now instead he stood tall, his face masked in his best smug-lawyer demeanour. He waited, forcing the awkwardness of the silence tighten their air until Rochefort felt the need to shatter it.

His lip just twisted, eyes flickering to the small crowd gathered behind them.

“Do I pay you to stand and gawp?” He spat, “Get back to work!”

And just like that Athos knew he had won, round one at least.

Immediately the men and women behind him erupted in a flurry of activity. Like a flock of birds who were suddenly startled, the crowd flew apart to return to their duties.

“And you,” Rochefort snapped a finger at one of coachman who froze, wide eyed, “Take a horse and find the magistrate in the city. Alert them to the disgusting crime which had been committed.”


	7. Chapter 7

An empty stable was constructed as a temper jail cell for the condemned. Porthos’ hands stayed lashed tightly behind his back as two men half lifted, half dragged, him inside. They didn’t secure him to the wall, it seemed a little redundant when the man couldn’t even support his own weight, head lolling up and down as he was manhandled.

The sight sent Athos clutching a wall strut for support.

What if he was…

 No. He wasn’t dead. Hurt, badly, but not dead. Wounds could be healed, Porthos would recover with time, Athos could help him, they just needed to get off the estate… Maybe even the country. Athos had plenty of resources to disappear them both from the area no questions asked, he just needed to get to Porthos first.

Athos watched, from out of sight, as Rochefort slammed the bolt into the lock and storm back towards the house, shouting at anyone who dared get oto close. It struck Athos as odd that he hadn’t left anyone to stand guard, but, then again, why guard a prisoner who is incapable of moving? Assumingly Rochefort must have considered the lock and bindings more than enough.

Well… The oversight would suit Athos just fine.

Once the courtyard was clear Athos slid into the square. He was sure to stay close to the wall as he made his way to Porthos’ makeshift cell. He lifted the latch, cold and heavy in his hand, and only lugged the door open far enough to allow himself enough room to slip inside. The lock would be impossible to affix behind him, but it was doubtful anyone would notice in passing.

The room he Athos was met with was bare. Hay littered the otherwise rough floorboards and a single candle in its protective glass casing sent long flickered shadows across the room. A bundle of what could have been horse blankets was abandoned in the corner. Then the bundle moved.

“Porthos..?” The broken word dripped from Athos’ words, a cassum of silence between the two of syllables.

Floorboards creaked, a tell-tale cry of intrusion to their master, but Athos ignored them. He crossed the shadowy room and crouched down next to the bloodied figure. Porthos’ face was even worse up close. His skin, that beautiful skin which Athos had spent not so long ago mapping with his mouth, was now bruised and swollen and slashed almost beyond recognition. Dried blood crusted over the wounds as his body tried it’s best to seal the cuts, dark swelling forcing his right eye closed. The other lid settled at half-mast and was unfocused. His mouth was slack, lip split open where the whip had caught the soft skin. The smile which was always there was nowhere to be found. Athos bit his lip in an effort not to cry.

“Oh, Porthos…” Athos finger gently touched the left temple of Porthos’ face. The skin was at least warm, twitching at the touch. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay…”

A metallic click from the barn doorway tightened every muscle in Athos’ body.

No…

“I knew it was you.”

The cold voice broke the silence in the room.

No… Good God no…

Athos withdrew his hand and stood, chin up as he turned to face who he already knew was there. A Winchester hand gun was pointed at him, the metallic silver barrel trained on his chest. Rochefort’s cold eyes studied him from behind the weapon.

“I had my suspicion but I never expected you to be stupid enough to actually sneak in here. You’ve really made this all too easy for me.”

Athos’ heart thundered against his chest, smacking again and again against his ribs as if in an effort to break through bone. This wasn’t happening… This couldn’t be happening. He stepped forward, although halted when the older man shook the weapon in a clear warning.

Athos raised his wands to shoulder height, fingers played in a surrender. “I came in to check du Vallon was still breathing.”

“Bullshit.”

Athos bristled at the insult. “What _exactly_ are you accusing me off?”

“Sodomy.” The word was launched from Rochefort and it hit Athos’ square in the chest. It took a great deal of effort not flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” Rochefort pursed his lips and spat heavily at Athos’ feet. Saliva splattered against his shoes, “And you’ll face the same magistrate you demanded for that mutt.”

“You have no evidence.”

Rochefort’s eyes slid to the figure curled on the floor, the gun shifting over to his new target. Ice hit across Athos’ chest like a wave.

“So I suppose if I shoot him you won’t care?”

Athos’ mouth opened, then shut, mind completely blank. Somewhere, the rational part of his mind, knew he could demand Rochefort put the gun down for no other reason than human decency – nothing to do with their relationship…

But…

“Don’t,” The word broke, shattered, on Athos’ tongue, “Please.”

Rochefort turned the gun back to Athos and stepped backward, “As I thought. You’re both as repulsive as each other.”

The older man turned, ready to shut the pair in the stable. Athos’ panic spiked, along with his temper.

“You can accuse me of what you like but at least I am no murderer!”

The insult made Rochefort pause, fury flashing through his stare as his hand gripped the pistol’s handle.

“Excuse me?”

“I know what you did.” Athos’ voice was cold, “All those people you killed, the real reason why you’re hiding out here. Fetch the magistrate, call me whatever names you wish but at least I don’t have the blood of eighty-six people on my hands. There may be a monster in this stable but isn’t me or him.”

Something dangerous flashed across Rochefort’s face and for one heart freezing moment it seemed as if he was going to shoot. Athos could see the white in his knuckles as they strained, the man’s jaw tense as if willing himself to do it. Would it hurt? Perhaps not if it was quick. A shot to the head or heart and maybe he wouldn’t even feel himself hit the floorboards. Was it cowardly to hope for that? A quick death?

_I’m sorry, Porthos…_

 But the shot didn’t come. The thick air in the room suddenly shattered apart as Rochefort turned. He bent and grabbed the candle lamp from the floor.

“Hell isn’t hot enough for what you are.”

As the door slammed shut they were plunged into darkness. Athos allowed himself enough time to hear the lock slamming back into place before he turned back and felt his way to Porthos. His hands found the man in same position, and for one, terrifying, heart crushing moment, Athos thought it was too late. But then his scrambling hands found Porthos’ chest and felt the reassuring heavy rise and fall of laboured breaths.

Oh thank God…

“It’s going to be okay…” Athos promised around the lump in his throat. He bent, and pressed the softest of kisses to the beautiful man’s forehead, “We’re going to be okay… I promise…”

* * *

 

How _dare_ he?

Rochefort hurled the pistol across the court yard as he stalked away from the door, now locked with both a bolt and padlock.

That dirty _sinner_ thought he could judge him? The sodomite dared to look at his character and find it wanting? He kissed and petted and _lay_ with that repulsive creature. He, that _Athos_ , was the one with the decaying moral fibre. Not him, _never_ him.

That smug face Athos had worn while he showed Rocherfort up infront of his staff burned into his mind. The cackles which he was _sure_ were erupting from the workers in private hammered into against his ears. How dare he? He stood there, with all his short comings and wickedness and use all those fancy words to twist the situation until Rochefort was the villain?

Anger, white hot and scorching, swarmed and burned in his gut, whipping up the mortification and fury and seared them together until something altogether more dangerous emerged.

A wanting. A longing.

Rochefort would have vengeance.

The man suddenly looked at the stable block with renewed interest. It was a small building, making up three of the four sides of the square. The walls and doors were made of dark orange wooden planks, held together with a few iron struts and pins. The roof was made of a local grey slate, held up with tall wooden struts and load baring beams. Hay bales were kept in the make shift loft areas above the whole block so they were easily on hand for the horses.

The whole thing, in other words, was one huge tinderbox.

Smoking was prohibited in and around the block, and all lamps and candles were kept in bell-jar like protective covers… Just like the one he’d removed from the sodomites’ cell. Rochefort had only grabbed it to make their wait a little bit more uncomfortable, but now, as he withdrew the candle from it’s protective casing, a far better use for it occurred to him.

He bent to the corner of the door and scraped together the discarded hay into a sizable pile. Once satisfied with the size Rochefort carefully held the bare flame to the dry tinder, a smirk curling up his face as smoke began to twirl in the air. It started small, but with so much dry fuel around he doubted it would stay that way for long.

With a satisfied smile Rochefort dropped the candle and straightened up to his full height. He spared the door one last look before he spun on his heels and strode back towards the house.

Hell definitely wasn’t hot enough, but this would be a good start.

* * *

 

“I never told you how beautiful you were…” Athos confessed with a broken whisper, “Not just on the outside. I mean your eyes make me shudder and smile makes me forget all my problems, but on the inside too…” Gently Athos’ hand stroked Porthos’ dark curls, mindful to avoid the cuts to his forehead as he did so. “You’re so kind. The way you look and see the best in everyone, regardless of how they treat you… In Aramis and the world and… And me. When you looked at me it was like all my faults didn’t matter. You looked at my deepest, most hidden, secrets, and loved me for them. You made me forget how broken I am…”

Moisture dripped into Athos’ hand. He frowned. It took him a moment to realise that it was coming from him. He sniffed in an attempt to control his tears.

“But it’s going to be okay…” Athos felt like he was promising himself just as much as the man in front of him, “Aramis will return, with his father and… And it’s going to get sorted out. After that we’ll go. Anywhere, wherever. It doesn’t matter. You could come to Oxford with me, or France. Or the – the America’s or… Wherever you want. I’ll leave all this behind if that’s what you want. We could find some pokey room in some back end of a city without so much as two pennies to rub together and it won’t matter because we’ll be together...”

In an effort to stop the tears Athos scrubbed at his eyes with the cuff of his white shirt.

The future he imagined had to be possible. It _had_ to be, because the other options didn’t bare thinking about. Magistrates and jails cells and prison and a crumbling, heartstopping loneliness only known to those who have experienced loving acceptance and had it ripped away.

“Don’t you dare leave me, Porthos…” Athos’ head bent, giving up on controlling his emotions and instead let the silent tears run unobstructed. “I can’t do this without you…”

A cough from the darkness was the most beautiful sound Athos thought he had ever heard.

“Where...” The word, really, was little more than a groan. Athos’ eyes snapped up, although of course he couldn’t see the other man’s gaze. Athos’ spare hand scrambled to find Porthos’ own and clutched at the fingers. He almost cried with relief when he felt the bigger man squeeze back. “Would I go..?”

“Porthos… Porthos thank God I thought…” Athos paused to clear his throat in an attempt to loosen his voice, “How do you feel?”

“Mm…” Porthos seemed to be considering the question, clenching various muscles as he took stock of his injuries. “Not as bad as the time I was thrown from a horse…”

Athos, despite himself, felt a laugh bubble up from his stomach.

“Well that’s good to know… Do you remember what happened..?”

“Y-yea… I do…” Porthos groaned tucking his head against Athos’ knees, “Rochefort said he needed help at the stables before breakfast. T-two men were waiting for me. They jumped me ‘nd tied up… Then Rochefort, he…” Tension ebbed into his voice and Athos shushed him. It would do no good for Porthos to stress himself unduly, not with him so weak.

“It’s okay I know the rest…” Athos’ finger gently stroked across Porthos’ knuckles, soothing them in the darkness even though they couldn’t see each other.

“But…” Porthos reached up, his free hand finding Athos’ cheek bone, “Athos, what are you doing here?”

Athos caught the hand gently and pressed a kiss to the open palm. He could feel callouses of a hard life under his lips. He touched an extra kiss to them. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun… Slacker…”

Porthos laughed, although it sounded horse from his dry throat.

“That’s me. Slacker….”

Athos smiled, his heart, despite the whole situation, warming ever so slightly. An edge of the Porthos’ old smirk tugged at his lips. The sight was welcome, even with his wounded face. The cuts were maybe even beginning to look a little better, definitely scabbing over.

But why…

A frown creased Athos’ features as he blinked down at Porthos who was suddenly coming into view.

“What’s…” Porthos ran his finger clumsily over Athos’ cheekbone. “What’s wrong..?”

“I can see you…” But it wasn’t daylight. Porthos’ dark skin bathed in an orange glow, like a sunrise or…

Athos turned, searching for the source. A dark orange light licked up under the door, tasting the air in the room. Dark clouds accompanied them, wisps curling and twirling in the air... His eyebrows knitted together as Athos focused on the orange tendrils climbing their way up the barn door.

“Fire…” The word was a whisper, the cold realisation snaking up his spine and seizing of hold of his throat. He pushed away from the floor violently and staggered to his feet.

“FIRE!”

Athos pressed his hand against the door and tugged it back with a hiss of pain. He moved slightly to the left and slammed his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge.

“No…” The smoke was building momentum now, the stream becoming a bellow as the fire began to spread its way up the door and towards the load baring struts.

His hands balled into fists and Athos hammered them on against the wood.

“HELP!”  Athos threw himself at the door again, and again. Pain burst in his shoulder but he kept going. He gulped a breath only to double over, choking as the smoke attacked his lungs.

Porthos shoved himself onto his elbow, but only managed to stay there for a moment before collapsing under his own weight and back to the floor.

“Athos?”

“There’s a… _fire!”_ Athos coughed around the words. He smashed against the door once more, before stumbling back in defeat. The fire was too high now. Athos risked setting his clothing on fire if he kept it up. The heat stung at his face now, and his neck, and the rest of exposed skin.  He lurched backwards, rubbing the perspiration from his brow on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Athos?”

“The door is impossible…” Athos muttered. He began to feel his way along the wall, looking for second door, hatch, anything… But all he was met with was more wood, which was beginning to heat up under his fingers. “We need another way out… We need –“ Athos broke off, choking around the smoke and coughing into his upper arm. “Something!”

“Athos…”

But Athos wasn’t listening. His fingers kept scrabbling at the wall, kept searching for something, _anything._ His nails tugged and yanked against their beds, threatening to tear themselves out of his fingers. “There has to be another way! There has to be –“

Smoke, dark and thick, had filled the small space now. The flames had spread to the upper struts, licking along the roof of the stables. By now the whole door was engulfed in the angry orange flames, a towering inferno which would be impossible to pass. The stables had minutes at most before it would be overrun.

“Athos!”

But Athos’ mind was whirling. What else could he do? How else could they get out? There had to be another way option, another way. There was _always_ another way. There was always…

A cough burst from Porthos on the floor which snapped Athos’ attention.

“P-Please…”

The little word stabbed Athos between the ribs. Another hack crawled itself from his lungs as Athos stooped, fingers finding Porthos’ face through the heavy grey smoke.

“It’s going to be alright,” Athos promised as his thumb traced his swollen cheekbone, “I’ll find a way out. There’s always a way out, there’s –“

A sudden crack from a roof strut above cut Athos off mid-sentence. He flung his body over Porthos’ face, offering what little protection he could from falling debris, but the strut held in place. This time. Athos was about to pull back, to continue his desperate search, when he felt a hand anchor his head in place by the hair.

“Don’t…” Porthos’ voice was a whisper, his fingers tightened until Athos head bent down, foreheads pressed together. “Don’t leave me.”

The heat was reaching them by now, pricking up their backs and stinging their eyes.

“There’s still time. There’s still time…”

Athos could feel Porthos’ breath, thick and wet on his skin.

“Please don’t make me die alone.”

Die… Athos shook his head ever so slightly. “We aren’t going to die. We’re going to get out and live and grow old and…”

Athos truly wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

“This isn’t it…” He shook his head ever so slightly.

Another crack from above made the pair flinch together. By now fire surrounded them from all sides, the roof alight and flaming along all support struts. Once one of them gave, everything would come down on top of them.

“This can’t be it.”

“If it is…” Porthos tilted his head up, lips finding their place next to his lover’s ear, “I’m glad its with you. You and your blush and your smirks… You’re worth this. Worth all of this.”

Athos wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak without the lump of emotion escaping from his throat. The heat was building now, scorching indiscriminately everything within it’s path. His fingers traced the angles of Porthos’ face, committing everything he could touch to memory. The arc of his brow, the strength of his jaw, the curve of his lips... They had such little time left. He wanted to use every moment.

“I’m glad I met you…” Athos managed finally. He bent his face down, his lips finding Porthos’ gently. His mouth moved carefully against the other man’s and they moulded themselves together as a strut above them broke and the world came down around them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“By the time staff became aware of the fire,” the tour guide explained, “The lovers had already perished.”

He was a tall man, with dark wavy hair tucked away from his face with a beard and moustache oiled and sculpted to perfection. He wore his uniform blazer open over a simple white shirt, skinny dark jeans and dock martins. A name tag was clipped to the breast pocket, elaborate gold cursive displaying “Aiken House Trust” along with the man’s name. René. There was something about the outfit which suggested a great time had been taken to ensure it seemed effortless.

“The tragedy claimed the lives of those two men, who were trapped inside the blaze.” René continued. He spread his hands, indicating the empty plot of land. It was a bright space, a few grey cobblestones of the long abandoned court yard were the only proof a structure had ever stood here. “We’re actually standing in the very spot where the old stable block once stood. Our historians believe the fire was started here, and over all took less than ten minutes to completely destroy the structure and those trapped inside.”

Olivier swallowed, feeling ill. He could imagine the whole thing. Dry hay strewn across the cobbles. Tall wooden struts holding up the dark roof. Dark wash panels creating a strong, imposing, stable block. In fact… It felt like more than imagining.

But Olivier knew he couldn’t _remember_ this place. It wasn’t possible to remember a place which he had never been. He’d never even been to the _UK_ before. He ran a hand threw his hair, shoving the shoulder length waves out of his face. He used the back of his hand to shove the large black flames back into place as they slid down his nose in the summer heat.

_“Please don’t make me die alone.”_

The voice made a cold sweat break out across his forehead regardless of the seasonal heat.

This couldn’t be a _memory!_ Maybe his parents were right… Maybe he was losing it. Because these just couldn’t be memories. Fever dreams perhaps, or the beginnings of some kind of break from reality. Was it possible to _know_ that you were going crazy?

Because normal people didn’t hear voices which weren’t there. Normal people didn’t leave university to chase those phantom voices half way across Europe…

“ _Don’t make me die alone.”_

The tour guide was outlining the details of the disgraced house manager’s arrest, trial and eventual hanging, but Olivier wasn’t listening. The voices were getting louder again, crowding out the real world until they were all he could hear.

_“I’m glad I knew you…”_

Olivier stumbled backwards and out of the crowd.

_“Your blush and your smirks…”_

Stop!

Papers tumbled out his unsteady hands in his hurry to escape down the hill and back to the visitor’s centre.

_“Worth all of this.”_

Get out, get out, get OUT!

“Are you okay?”

It took Olivier a moment to realise the voice was coming from the world around him, not inside his own brain.

“I… Yes thank you…” Olivier muttered, never breaking his stride. He needed to put as much distance between that cursed spot and himself as possible. Maybe then the voices would stop.

“I just wanted to… You dropped this.” It wasn’t until a hand touched his shoulder that Olivier finally came to a stop.

His estate map was held out to him, the man holding it smiling a little nervously. The figure was dark skinned and hugely tall, with wide shoulders and eyes which seemed to shine with an unspoken humour.  A messenger bag was slung lazily over his shoulder, his t-shirt tight over his defined torso and thick arms. For a second Olivier didn’t know what to think. What to say. It had been a long time since he’d been faced with anyone as beautiful as the man in front of him.

When he didn’t reply the man stepped forward and pressed the map back into Olivier’s hand, those dark eyes roaming over his face.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The man asked. He dug into the bag and tugged out unopened bottle of water. “That story is enough to turn anyone’s stomach….”

“I…” Olivier hesitated for a moment, but actually the water did look wonderfully inviting, “Thank you…”

The June sun beat against Olivier’s forehead as he cracked open the bottle and took a few grateful gulps. When he was finished he snapped the plastic bottle shut and offered it back to the stranger but he waved it away. The smile had faded from his face, replaced with a look of concern.

“You still don’t look so great. Come here, out the sun…”

Olivier knew he should have been vaguely offended, but instead just allowed himself to be steered to a bench beneath one of the many trees dotted across the grounds.

The man took a seat beside him and stretched out lazily, his leather bag abandoned between them. They sat in silence as Oliver took a few more swigs from the bottle, the water doing wonders for both his anxiety and his temperature.

Finally, once the bottle was completely empty, the man flopped down, bare forearms pressed against his dark washed jeans.

“Poor fuckers…”

Olivier shot him a side-ways look, one eyebrow raised in question, so the man elaborated.

He nodded back up the hill towards the stables, “de la Feré and du Vallon… I mean, I know that Rochefort guy was hung for his crimes but it seems… I don’t know… A small compensation? Not enough you know?”

“Quite, yes…” Olivier scrubbed his hand through his hair, avoiding looking in the direction of the spot of the fire.

Silence stretched out for a few more minutes, both men just watching the tour visitors traipse back towards the main house.

“So…” The man said after a while, “Are you feeling better enough for me to ask your name?”

Olivier, despite himself, felt a laugh bubble up from deep in his chest.

“I suppose I can manage. I apologise, how rude of me,” He stretched out a hand, “Olivier Alexandre. Thank you for the water.”

The big man smiled, taking the offered in a hand in a strong grip. His skin was warm, Olivier couldn’t help but notice.

“Isaac Bruller. Good ta’ meet you. So what brings you up here, Olivier Alexandre?”

Olivier loved the way his name rolled off Isaac’s tongue, smooth and heartfelt in a way which sent a shiver down his spine. The question was hard though… What had drawn him up here? Strange voices in the night? Dreams which ended in flames and left him shaking, bathed in a cold sweat during the darkest moments of the night. Truth be told, after the two weeks of sleep broken with terror and tears, Olivier had turned to the internet in desperation. There’d been thousands of articles on what Olivier would describe as hocus pocus drivel – old souls and past lives and the like – but then he’d stumbled across the web page of the ‘Aiken House trust’. It outlined the tours which were available, of the manor house and grounds, but also an adults only ghost tour which followed the ‘ _Heart wrenching tale of two lovers, kept apart by status and ignorance who lost their lives because a world couldn’t understand their love.’_

A small synopsis had followed the tag line, along with information about how to book. Within 10 minutes Athos had reserved himself on a tour for that weekend, and booked a plane ticket for the day before. Part of him _knew_ he was crazy. Normal, rational, people didn’t do things like this. Drop everything and take an international flight to follow ghosts. He didn’t even _believe_ in ghosts!

“I… I don’t know really…” Olivier ducked his head finally, letting his unkempt hair flop as a protective shield between them, “Saw the story online and had to see it for myself…”

Isaac raised in eyebrow, gently nudging Olivier’s shoulder with his own. “That’s a long way to for a good ghost story.”

“Oh?” Olivier tucked his hair back so he could eye the man with some curiosity, “And how are so sure?”

“Well that’s hardly an accent from round these parts… What are you, French?”

“Actually yes.” Olivier was surprised. He was French but after so long in various boarding schools in America his accent was anything but traditional. “Well done.”

Isaac smirked, proud of his diagnosis, “What can I say? I’m good with people.”

“Well what are you doing here?” Olivier turned the question back on his companion, “It’s a nice day to be spending it chasing ghosts.”

The big man shrugged, “I like this place. Used to come here as a kid with my school and foster parents. It always gave me this weird feeling, which kind of made sense once I heard the poor buggers story… I just… Feel for them, you know? Like, couple of decades back and it could have been me in that stable…”

Olivier couldn’t help but feel surprise jump in his chest. Was that Isaac’s ways of admitting he was gay? Testing the waters? He opened his mouth but the big man’s eyes dropped to his hands and continued talking.

“I feel… Something for them. A kinda’ kinship I guess. Like sometimes, when I’m here, I feel close to them. Like I can feel their fear, almost hear their voices or something…”

Did… Did he just…? Olivier stared, dumbfounded, as Isaac shrugged.

“Crazy right?”

His mouth was suddenly dry again. It took Olivier a few attempts to swallow, to wet his mouth enough to form words.

“That’s… I mean…”

“There you are!”

Both heads snapped up to see the tour guide, René, jogging up towards them. The grounds had gone suddenly quiet without the pair noticing.

“There you two are!” He drew up in front of them, taking a few deep breaths to settle his heart before fixing him with a stare, “Never does well for me to finish a tour with fewer guests than I started with. Management tends to look negatively on it.”

He snapped his head up in the direction of the stables and called out, “Charles? I found them!”

Olivier just blinked surprise at the intrusion but Isaac let out a laugh. He scooted up on the bench until his side was flush against Olivier’s. He reached out to pull René down next to them. It was a squeeze, but all three men fitted well enough.

“You shouldn’t get stressed like that, René, life’s too short. I was just passing time with my new friend here. Olivier? This is René, chief tour guide and all round expert in all things Aiken.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olivier reached over Isaac and took the man’s outstretched hand, “Thank you for the tour. It was excellent.”

“You’re welcome,” René’s face broke into a big smile, revealing a row of perfect teeth, “The story of de la Feré and du Vallon is kind of a specialist subject for me. It’s a dark spot on my family’s history, but to pretend it never happened would do those men a great dishonour.”

Olivier frowned, his head tilting ever so slightly as he regarded the man, “Your family?”

“Oh, didn’t Isaac tell you?” René shot a glance to Isaac who just shrugged, “I’m René d'Herblay. Great, great, grandnephew of the Marc Rochefort, the bastard who was executed for the murders.”

Isaac snorted, “The number of ‘great’s change every time you say that, René.”

The man seemed unconcerned, waving away the words.

“My great grandfather also went to university with Athos de La Feré. They were friends.”

Olivier blinked in surprise. “Really?”

René nodded. “He died well before I was born, but dad used to tell me stories. Apparently he used to speak about de la Feré all the time. Dad used to tell me how he’d get this sad little smile on his face when de la Feré came up in conversation, how he’d always say that the man saved his life but would never explain how…”

The conversation was interrupted by footsteps beating a path down from the stable. All three heads swivelled to the noise, only to see a young man jog towards them. An olive skin boy was perhaps a few years Olivier’s junior. He wore the same uniform blazer as René, although wore a black shirt and blue jeans under it. Apparently the uniform regulations for staff was pretty lacks.

“You could have _told_ me you found them…” The boy’s brows knitted together in a scowl, shooting the look towards René, “I’ve been running all over the grounds looking for them.”

René seemed indifferent at the look he was being given and instead just reached out and tugged the boy into his lap, wrapping his arms around his middle like an anchor.

“Stop being a brat. Come here and be polite…”

The boy muttered something about ‘ _being polite when he wasn’t made to run’_ but did smile all the same. He settled himself comfortably against René’s shoulder and flicked his sleek dark hair from his face, completely at ease with the close contact and nodded at Olivier.

“Nice to meet you.”

René rolled his eyes and jabbed the boy in the ribs, causing a shout of indignation and a fresh glare.

“This overgrown puppy is my boyfriend, Charles. He works here too, although not for much longer if he keeps being rude to me…”

Isaac laughed out loud while Athos just shifted a little uncomfortably, unsure what to make of the open affection. He wasn’t used to being around people who loved so openly, especially not two men. Boarding schools were a difficult place when you didn’t fit the expected mould. Marking yourself out as different in such an obvious sense was a dangerous move to make. One Olivier would have never dared do.

“The estate is closing,” René pointed out. He tightened his arms around Charles’ middle, looking at the pair others with interest. “We can’t stay here, but the brat and I are off the clock. We could head to the village?” He paused, allowing his gaze to fall on Olivier, “You buy the first round of drinks and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about de la Feré and du Vallon.”

The idea swirled excitedly in his stomach. The drink was more than welcome, along with the stories of the men who had lost their lives on the estate, the men who he heard inside his head. But…

He glanced at Isaac, raising an eye brow question.

“Fancy it?”

Isaac shrugged, pretended to consider the offer, then nodded, “I got nothing else planned. A drink sounds good.”

Charles was the first to move, bounding up from René’s lap at the idea of drinks. He turned and tugged his boyfriend’s hand until he complied with a laugh and stood.

“Like I said… Brat…”

The pair began to squabble good naturedly as they turned their backs on the bench. Olivier might have wondered if they were serious, but René quickly slid his arm around Charles’ waist. The pair were larger than life, slightly over powering, and so in love it tugged a smile from Olivier.

Isaac watched the pair with Olivier for a moment, before he ducked his gaze and slid a little closer to the smaller man on the bench. Immediately Olivier his heart thud against his chest. Isaac was so close now. He could smell him; wood smoke and coal and coffee swirling together to create a scent which dried out Olivier’s mouth in the best possible way. Isaac tipped his head close to Olivier’s, the smallest of smirks playing on his lips. Olivier couldn’t take his eyes of those damn lips.

“Besides, I’d never pass up a drink with someone as damned pretty as you.”

The moment Olivier had registered the words Isaac was already gone, messenger bag on his shoulder as he strode to meet the two tour guides.

Olivier only faltered for the smallest of seconds. He’d come here chasing ghosts, chasing memories which weren’t his own. He hadn’t been looking for kindness, or friends or… Or whatever Isaac was with his little smirks and bright eyes and deep laugh and…

Isaac looked back over his shoulder, shooting Olivier one of those beautiful smiles.

“You coming or not?”

And it wasn’t an option. Not really. Olivier pushed himself from the bench and jogged after them, tucking himself into the group to make a foursome as they wandered down the hill towards the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise this wasn't what people were likely expecting, but it's the way it's been planned to end right from the beginning. 
> 
> I hope you all liked it all the same. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. 
> 
> Than you so much for reading <3 I've loved hearing your feedback.
> 
> Love love love!!
> 
> Lat ^^


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